


If I'm Awkward, and You're Awkward, Who's Flying the Plane?!

by Royalrastafariannaynays



Series: You're So Fucked [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Can be read independently from the series, Character Death, Childhood PTSD, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FTM Karkat Vantas, Fluff, Humanstuck, I'm adding a bunch of precautionary tags, M/M, Minor Violence, Oral Sex, POV Karkat Vantas, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Penetrative Sex, Sequel to my DnD fic, Sex Toys, Tumblr Memes, Tumblr Prompt, Vaginal Sex, Wakes & Funerals, cute dates!, happy ending i swear, karkat is trans and comfortable with his genitals and secure in his gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 16:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 74,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7276024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royalrastafariannaynays/pseuds/Royalrastafariannaynays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy you made out with in a closet at a party in high school is somehow <i>miraculously</i> back in your life.</p><p>He <i>still</i> hasn't made good on his intent to ask you out.</p><p>And he's fucking up buying lube of all things at the self-checkout station at Target. Where you work.</p><p>(Hint: he makes good on his intent. And you're very happy.)</p><p>OR: A story about a relationship with some ups and downs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From that prompt (I can't find it rn) where person A of the OTP is a cashier and person B is the one who breaks the self-checkout trying to buy a bottle of lube, hahaha

It’s a slow night at Target. Where you work. Where you walk in, clock in, put on your nametag that still has the wrong name on it. It’s not like it’s the name that your Aunt Havanita still calls you at the family reunion, but it’s the wrong one. Karter. As if Karkat is too difficult to pronounce for the incompetent white people that like to go to the grocery store between the hours of five PM and midnight. 

Karter isn’t even a really great name. Like what the fuck? 

At this point, you’re tired of asking your manager to get you a new one, anyway. 

So there you stand, with your sensible khakis and red cardigan, waiting to close self-checkout. You have fifteen minutes, and then you can start shutting it down, and get home. To your bed. And take off your binder. Which is stupidly itchy today, for whatever reason. 

Ten minutes until you can start shutting them down. 

It’s a Tuesday night. It’s nearing the literalized middle of the night. You’re not making enough at this job. You smile at a nice woman wearing scrubs as she collects her receipt. She returns her own hand basket to the stack near the door, returns your smile, and returns to the outside from whence she came. 

God, but Sollux will be home. He’s been bringing that shitty prick over half the nights, too. Either that, or he’ll be steadily killing himself on a solid diet of Doritos and Mountain Dew. The purest sham to his own Korean ancestry, he admits. And then sometimes he starts to cry. ‘I haven’t had good kimchi in three years, Karkat. Why do we live in the middle of nowhere?’ To which you usually reply with a nod, and tell him there’s an H mart less than half an hour away. And he flips you off. 

It’s a vicious cycle. 

Two minutes until you can close down the self-checkout. You ready your keys. 

One minute. You start the shut down on three of them. 

A too-familiar voice stops you at the last one. 

“Wait!” It says. 

“No,” you reply. 

You look up, and there he is. 

Dave fucking Strider. There to make your sweetest dreams. 

The greatest sigh to ever heave releases from between your lips. 

You catch your boss’s eye over Dave’s shoulder. He looks confused. Why haven’t you helped this customer yet? Why haven’t you let him check out? Karter, you’re being too angry again. 

Standing back, you gesture for Dave to check out. He’s not moving, though, and just staring at you. Like it took his lame beanie-covered head eight whole minutes to figure out that yes, you work at Target, and yes, you’re here. 

And then his face fills with red. 

It’s been three weeks since you put your number in his phone. And all he’s done is send you bad memes. He probably didn’t mean what he said, anyway. Who’d want to go on a date with you? Even if your hair is freshly washed, and your septum piercing isn’t flipped up into your nose. Yeah, sure, you look less grungy than usual. 

“Come on, Strider, I don’t have all night. Please help yourself to the self-checkout,” you say, gesturing again, and walk over to the other three scanners, to make sure they’re closing down properly. Dave very obviously drops two of his three beef pot pies that he was holding in his arms as you turn to do more of your job. 

Five minutes later, you hear him softly calling your name. 

“Uh, hey? Karkat?” 

You level a glare in his direction, and he looks so embarrassed you wonder what could possibly be wrong. But you draw your keys from your pocket and think through the list of things that could be going awry with Strider. It’s a long list. 

What you don’t expect is to go up to him and see him nervously holding a bottle of Astroglide in one hand. O... kay. Glancing over the rest of his items, you see a box of condoms, a ceramic piggy bank, his three beef pot pies, Command hooks, and 3 different flavors of Toaster Strudel. O….kaaaaaay. 

Shaking your head, you push him aside a little to see the screen. Nothing wrong there. 

“It’s not, uh… scanning,” Dave says to you. 

He’s so tall standing next to you, and he smells pretty great. And you’re a sucker for gray sweatpants. God. Why hasn’t he asked you out yet? It’s definitely not bothering you. At all. And… Jesus, that’s a large bottle of lube. Do you even sell that size here? Obviously, seeing as he has it. God, what in the fuck does he need it for?

You easily go through the commands to input the code. It doesn’t work. You try again. Doesn’t work. 

“Thanks, man,” Dave mutters, obviously still blushing his ass off. You wave him off. 

Scan again, it doesn’t work. You pull up your internal manual of codes, find nothing. You end up going through the catalog and picking the product from the display, then scanning. 

“Sorry I haven’t really, uh… said… anything,” Dave mumbles, and oh, boy, you do not need to do this right now. 

“I’m at work, Strider,” you tell him. It’s only with halfhearted anger. 

This time, the thing works, the product rings up. You gesture for Dave to pay for his groceries, very carefully not doing so with your middle finger. 

He sighs. It hurts you a little bit. But you are at work, that’s a fact. You value your professionalism when it comes to socializing on the job, at least. Dave can’t be that exception. 

But as he’s collecting his bags, you pass him. You touch his shoulder. When he looks back at you, his face is wide open, and he’s trying not to grin. 

“I get off work in about ten minutes. Do with that information what you will.” 

Dave grins, punches the air, and walks off.

 

 

* * *

 

As you sit down in your shitty old Honda Accord, you check your phone. 

Will Smith’s dulcet tones ring up at you from your pocket. _“Now that’s what I call a close encounter.”_

you working tomorrow morning

I HAVE TOMORROW OFF.

_“Now that’s what I call a close encounter.”_

It’s… it’s an address. With a message. 

toaster strudel my place

_“Now that’s what I call a close encounter.”_

we can watch some chopped?

How the _fuck_ did Dave know that Chopped was a weakness of yours. 

But fine. Sure. 

You drive home. Sollux is on the couch with mister doucheprick number one, the dyed-hair boy wonder. And they’re uh. They’re really going at it. From the sound of it, as you shift through your closet for a clean hoodie and your harem pants (because fuck if you’re going to a late night movie at Strider’s house you might as well dress comfy), they’re gonna be loud. 

After thinking for a hot minute, you go ahead and pack your computer shit and some extra underwear in your backpack, and slide it onto your shoulder. As a second thought, you grab your toothbrush. 

And as you pass the sofa again on the way out, you look down. It’s a mistake. Because not only are there Sollux and Dickprince Eridan flailing about on the cushions, there is also an unrecognizable third person. No, wait. You see tits. And a wrist covered in about eight hundred Silly Bands. Feferi. Fuck Sollux and his duality schtick. Yeah, you’re not coming back to the apartment tonight if you can help it. 

You leave Sollux a note on the refrigerator whiteboard, barely making it out of the door on the front end of a long, giggly moan that curves up on a lisp at the end.

 

 

* * *

 

You drive to Dave’s. You’re not even really thinking very far. You’re tired, your feet hurt even in the house shoes you decided to slip on before leaving, and the closer you get to his place in your GPS, the more adrenaline fills your body. 

So much adrenaline goes through you that when you park in front of his house, and he opens the door, you walk in without a second thought. 

“So. Is it okay if I stay on your couch tonight? Because there’s some stuff going on in my apartment right now that I really do _not_ want to hear,” you say, dropping your backpack in an armchair, and plunking yourself down in the couch. The couch that’s _entirely_ too comfortable. Dave kind of closes the door behind you and looks like he wants to laugh. 

“Because I’m super tired,” you add, “And I really want to sleep without being woken up by… all that.” 

Dave’s biting his lip when you look at him. Like he wants to smile, but he’s not. He nods, and moves toward the TV. Like you come here all the time, and you stay over casually all the time, and you watch movies with him all the time. He pulls out the PS4, and slides in a movie without asking for your opinion. That’s all well and good. 

“So does that nod mean that it’s cool?” You ask, just to make sure. It’s cool in the house, which you’re fine with. 

“Yeah, it does. Sorry. Still a little overwhelmed by the fact that you’re actually in my house, man.”

And if that isn’t one of the cutest things you’ve ever heard. You think?

It’s not, but still. 

“As long as you’re cool with John getting up to make his coffee in the morning. Dude has a nine-to-five already,” Dave adds, setting the controller on the table and turning on the television. It’s a pretty nice television. Is it Dave’s, or John’s? 

“It’s better than waking up to the lovely sound of vigorous sex three times in the night, in three different fucking voices, for the fifth time this fucking month,” you reply, folding your feet onto the couch in front of you. You smear a hand over your face. 

God, why are you oversharing? 

You barely know Dave, if you’re honest. He’s a guy you made out with for half an hour in high school. You’d spent some time with him in high school, but only in large group situations. And even then, he was quiet, cryptic and annoying. Jittery and full of incredibly fabulous one-liners and _irony._

So you look up at him. 

“I barely know you,” you tell him. 

“I know,” he says. 

“You invited me over to watch a movie,” you add. 

“I happen to think you’re a pretty darn cute dude,” he tells you.

Your face fills with red. “I’m not cute.”

“Denial,” he retorts. 

“You’re okay with me sleeping on your couch,” you tell him. He’s just standing and staring at you now, controller in one hand. You think he’s staring at you.

“Yeah? I’d do it for any of my friends.”

“Are we friends?” You ask. 

“I’d like to think so,” he replies easily. 

“Are you thinking of this like a date?” You ask. His cheeks turn red again, and his sunglasses (he’s wearing them fucking indoors and the lights are only half on???) glint as he turns his head away from you. He takes off the glasses and hooks them through the collar of his shirt. His eyes are surprisingly delicate as he turns them to you without moving his head back. 

“If you want to, that’d be fine by me,” he says, and you’re tempted to laugh. He’s trying so hard to be cool. 

“Alright. Yeah, this can be a date,” you tell him, from the couch. His eyebrows raise a little, and his smile gets a little stupid. 

“Cool with me. You want Toaster Strudel?” 

“Yes, you goddamn idiot. Strawberry,” you demand, halfheartedly taciturn. “And milk, if you have it.”

Dave actually looks _regretful_ when he informs you that he doesn’t have something you want. 

“We don’t have milk cause John’s lactose intolerant. We have almond milk, though,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his own sweatpants. You let yourself laugh, once. 

“Yeah, but just a little bit,” you say. 

Dave scampers off. While he’s gone, you’re struck with something. The lube… and condoms… oh god. What if he’s getting the wrong idea about this? You said date, not… rendezvous? What’s the word you want here? Dave comes back into the room with two cups of water and a glass of the milk you asked him for. 

“We have a four-slice toaster, so neither of our strudels will get cold. Cool, right?” He says, dropping four packets of frosting on the table. 

“Hey, Dave,” you say, to get his attention. 

Dave pauses at the sound of his first name. He hears the more serious tone in your voice. You have to ask right now, though. His chin jerks up, and he turns to face you in his crouch. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Are you, uh… expecting anything? Tonight?” Smooth. Smooth as butter. Yes, you’re a fully-functioning adult. With sore feet. And a shit job. 

Dave looks more embarrassed than ever. His face flushes right back to his ears and down his neck. He takes a deep, gasping breath, and starts down the longest ramble tirade you’ve heard in awhile. 

“Oh wow you’re thinking about the lube and condoms and shit and honestly I am so sorry I didn’t clarify sooner but a man’s got needs and sometimes you gotta beat the meat you know, stroke the bologna pony and get some off because of stress, and Astroglide is great for that you know it doesn’t make my dick smell like a fucking lotion party with all the freesia and aloe and shit and it doesn’t chafe at all you know, and jerking off in the shower is so eighth grade so honestly I really don’t want to have to use spit as lube because that’s not perfect and besides, with the condoms, man, I always like to be prepared and safe and I figured if I was buying lube I might as well get some wraps cause even if it’s a quickie, wrap that stickie. I totally did not go to Target with you in mind tonight or expect anything I didn’t even expect you to be there, but if I’m gonna be perfectly honest I _did_ get the condoms with you in mind cause I was finally working up the gutzpah to ask you out seriously but you’re so great so I was really nervous and –”

“STOP.” 

Dave comes to a full stop, head in his hands. 

And you laugh. God help you, you start laughing. And he looks so confused at first, but then laughs a little bit himself. 

“Okay, yeah, I get it. Thank you for the miles of reassurance and information I really didn’t need,” you tell him, trying to slow your breathing. And your binder twinges your side. You really should take it off. 

“Uh, hey, would you mind if I took off…” you trail off, and gesture to your torso without thinking. Dave nods, seeming to understand. You have no idea how, but you’re too tired to care. 

“Yeah, bathroom’s second door on the left. Go nuts. Don’t leave it in there, though, John might try something.”

The thought disturbs you a bit, but you follow his directions, and Dave turns to go grab the Toaster Strudel from the kitchen. 

You get back at the same time. You’re grateful you decided on the hoodie tonight, and you’re even more grateful your breasts are small enough to not make a noticeable difference under it. The binder is shoved into your backpack next to your computer. Dave hands you your plate, sits down, and picks up the controller. There’s his player’s handbook and a mess of character sheets on the table, with some scattered dice.

It’s all going weirdly well. He’s so comfortable with you. 

Wait a second. 

“How did you know I was trans?” You ask, playing it cool, over the opening lines of Legally Blonde. Fuck, this movie is good. Dave hasn’t even flirted with you, and you’re rock hard. 

“Uh,” he says, laying frosting out over his pastries. 

“I haven’t spent a lot of time with you. And believe me, I know I’m cis-passing. I have it on very good authority. So how did you know?” You push. 

Dave looks like he’s not sure if he should tell you. Like he’s caught between ratting someone out, and being honest with you. He shoves half a pastry in his mouth, chews, swallows, and takes a breath. Maybe you’re being a little accusatory here. You could soften up a little, probably? 

“I overheard Rose having a conversation with Kanaya about your size, because they ordered you a couple new ones from that company with all the fancy skin tones for your birthday last year. And I remember you having one on, that night we were making out in the closet? I saw the shoulder strap.” He says. And yeah. That makes sense. “My second-oldest brother is trans. Dirk’s on T, now, but yeah.”

Your hackles go back down. You were worried he might have heard from someone like Sollux, who tended to really not care about anything when he was high enough.

“Oh,” you say, simply, and take a bite. And a drink of your milk. Not bad.

“I mean, it doesn’t change… how I think or feel about you,” he adds. And it’s a comfort. You got over being truly offended by people not liking who you were a long time ago. But from him… it feels nice to know. 

“Thanks,” you say. 

And Elle Woods has just decided to go to Harvard.

 

 

* * *

 

Dave is yawning by the time Elle Woods gets the alibi for her case. You’re sure it’s not because of the movie, because Legally Blonde is one of the best films of its time. 

“You can go to bed if you want,” you say. 

Dave glances over at you, and pokes your stomach with the foot he has in your lap. 

“Not a chance,” he replies. “Skipping out partway through the first date? Very uncool.”

It brings a little bit of a grin to your face. Dave gets up, though, and heads to the bathroom. 

You place your hand in the warm spot his body left on the couch. Since the movie really started, you put your feet back on the ground, and relaxed into the sofa. The pillows have been relocated to the floor, and you’re surprised you haven’t fallen asleep yet. 

Dave gets back, and you move your hand. He brings a wave of good smell with him, and something… minty fresh? 

You cackle. 

“What?” He asks, and seems genuinely offended. 

“Oh, nothing. Your toothpaste smells great, by the way,” you tease him, and his sigh would be audible in Taiwan. 

“You’re supposed to not mention it, and simply be flattered that I wanted my breath to smell good for you,” he says, acting incredibly put-upon. His tone betrays him, though, and when you glance over he’s looking at you. 

He’s opted to not go back to reclining on the arm rest, but instead sit with only half a foot between you. His head is lolling back on the backrest of the sofa, and he’s grinning again. 

“Is this the part where you sneeze, to get your arm over my shoulder?” You ask, a little wary. A small part of you finds yourself wanting him to do just that. 

“What, I can’t pull some sweet moves on you? On our first date?” Dave puts his hand on his chest and gasps. “I’m hurt.”

You sigh heavily. “If you’re gonna kiss me or something, just do it,” you chuckle. And yet despite your command, you’re surprised when you find fingers on your jaw. “I didn’t even get the chance to clean my mouth, so it’s honestly gonna be your fault if you don’t like it.”

“Karkat,” he says, and you’re staring at his lips. 

“Yeah,” you say back, intelligently. 

“I’m gonna kiss you now. Batten down the hatches,” he starts, and you’re rolling your eyes. 

And he kisses you. Without the long-winded metaphor. Dave’s lips pull so softly on yours, a burning ember in between you and absolutely no air at all. He hums, a sugar-sweet note that drips like honey down your spine. 

Despite the fact that the kiss is chaste, and he pulls away after one long, lingering touch, it’s the best kiss you’ve gotten in some time. His lips are warm, and his fingers are gentle, but you want to chase them, want to taste them. 

So of course he lets you go. Your eyes go from half-lidded to fully open again, and you feel slightly dizzy. Dave’s grinning like he won the lottery and knows the secret to winning all the rest of them. Embarrassment shoots over you. How dare he look so smug. 

You lean back, folding your arms over your chest. Dave laughs out loud. 

“Oh yeah, and how much practice making out with your hand did it take to perfect that one?” You retort to his smirk. He just smirks wider. 

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” Dave teases you, and you pretend to frown. 

You go back to studiously watching the movie. Dave very un-smoothly misses your hand five times when he tries to grab it. At one point, you try to keep it away from him. He gets frustrated, and grabs it with both hands before switching it to just one. 

It’s not bad, holding hands with Dave. 

And sooner than you know it, the movie’s ended. Dave flexes his hand in yours as the credits roll, like he’s not sure what to do with it. You look at the clock, and it’s just past two-thirty in the morning.

He turns off the PS4, turns off the television screen. Stands up. You stand up.

Dave apparently chooses to let your hand go. The movie’s over, so the date’s over, right? 

“Whelp. Date’s over. Kiss goodnight, or should I be a gentleman and leave you at the door?” Dave asks, and yeah, that confirms it. But instead of letting him get to his bedroom door and leave you to the sofa, you pull his head down to your level and smash your lips to his. Kiss goodnight, then. Thank you, body of Karkat, for doing things that you did not approve in triplicate. 

Dave laughs on your mouth. God, he laughs too much. It’s so obnoxious. You approve of his next move, wherein he moves his hands to the small of your back, and tilts his head to get a better angle on your lips. And damn, is that a better angle. There’s a sharp reminder of the closet back in high school, when you were both pretty much the same height, a respectable five foot five. And now, he’s standing here, all tall and good-smelling, and smug. 

And sweet. But you’re not saying that. 

The stubble on his chin scrapes your cheek, and he’s doing that thing they do in movies where he moves his mouth without actually doing much of anything. And it doesn’t feel bad or weird. Somehow. 

Gasping, you catch his upper lip in your teeth. It’s Dave’s turn to gasp, then, and suddenly you have a mouth full of tongue. His hands are pulling up your sides, briefly rucking up your hoodie and t-shirt before letting them fall again. The cold air on your lower back makes you shiver. 

Something clinks on your teeth and you reel back a little, startled. Dave’s hands are on your shoulder blades and he catches you there before you can trip backwards. 

His tongue is sticking out like he knows what you’re going to ask. There are two bars through the center. Plain. Functional.

“That’s, uh,” you say, staring at them, glancing up at his eyes, back down.

“New? For you, maybe. For me, they’ve been there for three years. It gets inconvenient to eat brisket,” he tells you. 

“Of course _you_ would be thinking about brisket,” you say, like it makes sense. It doesn’t.

Dave’s brows flick upwards. “Do I have a reputation of being a brisket eater or something?” 

You sigh. Now who’s calling out who on these faux-pas? 

Dave laughs, again. For the millionth time tonight. 

It’s a great sound. 

Disbelieving, relieved, timid, like he’s still not used to laughing. 

You shake your head, and pull him forward again so that you can swallow the sound. Dave makes this little happy-but-frustrated noise at your assertions. His fingers grip your waist, pick down your sides like you’re a guitar. He doesn’t even play guitar, why does that comparison work? 

Tentatively his fingers run over your ass, give a squeeze, and move back up. Like this isn’t something that needs to go that far. 

Oh, but now that you’ve started, why would you quit? He’s here, he’s available, he’s kissing you. So you take your hands from where they’ve gotten comfortable on his neck, and move them down to his chest. They’re _right there_ and he’s not wearing a jacket. Why not? 

Dave groans, a high sound, when you run both of your thumbs over his nipples, and pulls off your mouth. Man, you should have kept your fingers firmly on his neck. This is treachery. 

“Okay, okay,” he’s saying. “We need tooooo… ah, no,” he breathes, and you stop your index finger where it was gently circling the areola of his left pectoral through the shirt. He said no. 

“We should definitely slow down,” he says, looking up, like meeting your eyes is going to change his mind. “Because we haven’t even talked about this, really.”

You groan. So much talking. 

“I don’t know if you actually want this,” he says, then, and you feel guilty. Oh. 

How was your enthusiastic participation not enough? 

“I do,” you say. Firmly, decidedly. Just so that he knows. 

Dave’s face heats enough for you to feel it from the space he’s put back between your mouths. 

“That could just be the heat of the moment speaking,” he says, and you open your mouth with a frown. Because how was that not clear and sober enough? “Besides. Don’t you think this might be moving a little fast? And you’re tired from work.”

It makes a frustrating amount of sense. 

Your libido snarls at you when you release your hands and step away from him. But you do it anyway, and nod. 

“Yeah. I’m staying, anyway,” you say, and think for a minute.

“And if I say something else in the morning?” This last question is soft, quiet. Embarrassed, you find the word too late. A little fearful, for whatever reason. 

“Then that’ll be okay,” Dave says, and he’s running his hand through his hair. Of course, this knocks his beanie off and shows you the remnants of a bad, bright orange dye job on his hair. 

. . . . .

When Dave flushes, and you start laughing, it breaks you completely out of the mood. 

“Dirk put permanent hair dye in my leave-in conditioner because I lost his tiny screwdriver, okay?” He’s trying, and you’re laughing harder. Dave tries to shush you, patting his hands on your shoulders uneasily before getting frustrated and just silencing you with his mouth again. 

It’s effective, and you hum on his lips. 

“So I totally cock-blocked you,” Dave says, when he draws away again. “But I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to stay in my bed, instead of on the couch. John likes to whistle while he makes coffee. He’s merciless.” 

You consider the offer. “With you?” 

“If you want. I’m fine with taking the couch, though,” he tells you. And… it’s a tempting offer. But no. 

“Not a chance,” you tell him, with a little smirk of your own. A visible sheen of sweat forms on Dave’s forehead. “And I’ll have you know I’m a bit of a cuddle fiend. Or at least that’s what Sollux says.” 

Dave’s mind leaps over possibilities very obviously. He’s thinking about your history with Sollux and very visibly trying not to get jealous or too curious. Whatever. No skin off your bones that Sollux once fell asleep in your bed when you were seventeen, after a very long movie marathon, and couldn’t get up later without prying you off. 

Instead of asking anything, though, Dave simply moves over to his bedroom door. First door on the left. Right next to the bathroom, very convenient. When he opens it, you feel like there’s a definite threshold to be crossed. And you cross it. You blaze that trail and pass Dave straight into the room of no return, grabbing your backpack on the way in. You drop it next to his desk, and look around. 

There’s a messy bed, a desk covered in reading materials, textbooks, and notes, a table with what looks like… a mixing station? So you weren’t wrong about the music thing entirely. 

“It’s winter break, right?” You ask him. He nods. So you don’t have to feel guilty about keeping him up. 

Dave reaches the bed, and folds up his laptop and sets it aside on the floor. It’s a queen size bed, so not bad for space. He also has to move a few things, and then makes a futile effort to straighten the covers. 

“Uh,” he stammers. “You know where the bathroom is, in case you want to, I dunno. Freshen up or something.”

“Is this a thinly veiled attempt to make me brush my teeth?” You ask, suspicious. You’re already on your way back out, though, toothbrush in hand, and you catch Dave’s snort before you leave the room. When you get back, hoodie in hand, you toss it over the desk chair. Dave’s laying down already, and damn if the bed doesn’t look incredibly comfortable. And warm. With your hoodie off, you’re stupidly cold on your arms and chest. He’s looking up at his phone, on his back, and all but the lamp by where he’s laying are off.

“Ahh, minty fresh. Is this where you pull some smooth moves on me?” Dave says, mocking you from earlier. You shove his face a little, and flop down next to him. Something about Dave is very… cuddle-able. So you move close to him, resting your cheek on the meat of his shoulder. 

“No, asshat,” you mutter. You exhale, and relax. _Inhale_ , melt into Dave, _exhale_ , slap your phone onto the bedside table. 

Dave wiggles a bit, though, and manages to kiss you again. It’s… nice. 

All the tiredness from the day hits you, then. It feels so nice to be off your feet. Since when were you this tired? 

Dave’s arm fits around you, and you hook a leg over his hip. It’s so ridiculously comfortable. So stupidly comfortable. And he smells so nice. He turns off the lamp.

_You’re so fucked._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is mostly NSFW. check the tags, nothing dodgy I just want to make sure people are aware of what's ahead because i changed gears partway! <3

When you wake up, you’re so incredibly comfortable. 

“Hmphhhh.”

It’s dark in the room, and you take a brief moment to try and figure out when you got blackout curtains, when your bed got so comfortable, and just when you started sleeping with the window open. Cause it’s fucking cold in here. Also, what time is it? It feels like morning for some reason. You’re not sure why. 

Answer one: You’re not in your bed. Obviously that’s crazy. Who else’s bed would you be in?

Answer two: You’re at the center of an elaborate hoax. You are the pranked one. It is you. (fuck)

Answer three: You’re still dreaming. Well, but this hypothesis is very easy to test. 

So you open your eyes for a bit longer, and let them adjust. The ceiling is plain white, with an unfamiliar ceiling fan. You can read the “Hampton Bay” brand on the bowl of the light fixture. And shit. You’re not dreaming. 

Blinking away the crust, you yawn. It’s still so comfortable. 

Despite your face being cold, everything else on you is warm. Frosty nose, toasty toes. You’re a real fuckin’ poet first thing in the day. 

Answer two still hasn’t been eliminated from your mind. But nothing has been pulled on you yet. No one has sprung out of the shadows to frighten you half to death, and you aren’t being doused in water or shouted at. Okay. So answer two admittedly was a little ridiculous to begin with. But whose bed would you be in, anyway?

There’s not a single person that would – 

“Mmf,” a very deep presence says. 

“Oh my fucking god,” you say, more high-pitched and a little bit like a mouse faced with certain death. If the mouse was drowsy and had taken a dose of Benadryl. 

Because holy _shit._ You’re waking up in someone else’s bed. The panic of it all blinds you for a moment, before you realize that your legs are still tangled with this person’s, and your shirt is rucked up halfway around your chest, exposing your midriff to the harsh elements. 

What. Your nose is cold. 

“Shh,” the deep voice says again.

And everything comes very slowly meandering back. The lube at work, the aching feet, Sollux, the movie, the kissing. Jesus, how the fuck did you forget? Realistically you’ve only been awake for about three minutes. And you’re still trying to yawn the sleep out of your mouth. 

Dave’s the one wrapped around you like a limpet. Dave’s words from the pillow next to you, Dave’s hand resting gently on the aforementioned exposed midriff, Dave’s legs wound into yours and Dave’s bed and Dave’s smell and Dave’s lips on yours last night.

_Oh right._

A wash of weakness rolls right through you, from the fingers of your left hand to your toes, and back to the fingers of your right. You’re on your back, one leg thrown over Dave’s thighs and the other between them. You still have your socks on. Your pants are sagging a bit, exposing what amount of a happy trail you have. There’s a thick comforter over the both of you, and that explains why only your nose is cold. 

Did he get up in the middle of the night to open the window and shut the curtains over it? 

You’ve got to thank him for that one. 

Cause like, obviously, even with your cold face you’d probably end up hot as hell. Dave feels like he runs warm.

But maybe he always has the windows open. You remember a story about some crows coming into his room, when you were out bowling with his friends. Back in high school. That can’t be true, right? Crows are smart, but they’re not like that. Surely. 

Man, is this bed comfortable. 

The thumb on the hand that’s resting on your belly just barely moves up and down, tracing your navel. 

The company’s not bad, either. 

_“—a close encounter.”_

Your phone should be… ah yeah. There, bedside table. 

When you unlock it, it does that popping shutter noise, and Dave makes another unhappy grumble. He’s probably still asleep. 

The time says that it’s about half past ten. That’s not bad, for you. For a day off. You don’t sleep near enough. Seven… seven hours? Is pretty good.

You have a text from Sollux, asking when you’re getting home. You send him a selfie with a ‘fuck you’ and your middle finger. There’s one from Kanaya, too, a continuation of a conversation about the wedding. You turn down the brightness of your screen as an afterthought. 

“W’ time’s it?” Dave grumbles from next to you. 

His voice forming actual words surprises you so much that you drop your phone on your face. It hurts. 

“Ow, fucker.”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet,” Dave mutters, and his thumb swipes over your navel again. 

He’s… adorable. Frankly adorable, when he’s sleepy. Apparently. 

“Oh really,” you sort-of ask, picking your phone back up. You also have a few messages from your main DnD group, asking about a session this evening at seven? Kind of late, isn’t it? You’ve got time, though, so you reply with an affirmative. Better to have goals to meet on your days off work, or you don’t do much at all. And you did laundry three days ago, and cleaned your apartment and bathroom. And got groceries. You tend to put them all on the same day. Maximize efficiency and all that. 

_“Now that’s what I ca—“_

It’s Sollux texting back a ‘fuck you, two’ in kind, and then a ‘holy 2hiit ii2 that dave 2triider ? !’

How the fuck he programmed his cell phone to autocorrect that way is beyond you.

Your fingers are getting cold outside the warm pocket of the comforter.

“Yeah. I’m th’… bes’ fucker around,” he mumbles, still, and you look at him. 

Dave’s eyes are blinking open, very slowly. It takes him a second to actually recognize your presence before he’s smiling the same stupid smile from the night before. 

“I… hey,” he says, then. 

You almost drop your phone on your face again. 

Instead, you gently set it down next to your head. The hand on your stomach flexes, and his thumb moves in a more regular pattern, slow and sure and comforting. At least it’s comforting to you. 

“It’s just after ten-thirty,” you inform him, finally. 

He just keeps looking at you. Still waking up. 

“Sorry about the cold,” he manages eventually. “I like to have fresh air in the room. ‘Cept when it’s freezing out. Not too bad today.”

“Are you kidding?” You ask him, trying to keep your voice down for the sake of the quiet room. “My nose was nearly frozen when I woke up.”

Dave looks briefly distressed. “When’d you get up?” 

A soft laugh. “Maybe ten minutes ago.”

He relaxes, at that. His legs tighten around your thigh, and he sighs. “…’m sorry bout that.”

Why he’s apologizing you have no idea. “I tend to wake up and stay awake. I have bags under my eyes for a reason,” you explain. And Dave looks like he’s thinking for a minute or two. As if he’s still trying to work out a solution. 

Almost absently, his hand on your belly has moved southward. It’s definitely gotten your attention. He’s running his palm over your right thigh now. The one hung over his legs, the one closest to his body. Every other stroke has him pushing a little uncomfortably close to your groin. Even though your harem pants are shapeless and loose from about the knee up. 

“Uh, Dave,” you say. His hand stops, as he looks at your eyes again. 

Propped up on his elbow now, you notice. And he’s looking more alert. You let a suspicious glare find your face. 

“You do know what you’re doing, right?” You ask. 

And apparently he didn’t. As if burned, he retracts his fingers. “O-oh my God,” he stutters. From nose to ear to neck he gets so red he must be lightheaded. “I am so sorry dude, oh God oh God. Reflex.”

“Reflex?” You ask, relaxing again now that he’s removed the distracting touches. 

“Uh, wrong word. But uh, right word? I have no explanation,” he rambles all in one breath. And good lord, apparently he didn’t actually mean to be touching you like that. “I’m very tactile, it’s my bad, I’m sorry.”

It’s awkwardly quiet for maybe half a minute before he has to open his mouth again. At least he’s fully awake, now, you think wryly. 

“So, uh. Do you, uh. Still feel, uh,” he trails off, scratching his chin with the hand he’s retracted. “Can I kiss you?” 

That’s what makes you smile your first of the day. 

Taking it as the yes that it is, he moves over you, and kisses you. 

It’s gross, and you both have morning breath. 

But the feeling of the kiss leaves you with the same pulling and lingering satisfaction as the ones from the night before. So you kiss him again, and again. And again. 

“We should totally brush our teeth before continuing with this,” Dave says, and you nod. Very eagerly. 

He almost looks like he wants to pick you up and take you to the bathroom. This is, of course, something you scramble from the bed to avoid. And walk quickly to the door. Dave catches you just before you can get your hand on the doorknob, and places a hand on your lower back. His lips catch yours again, and you grunt with frustration. 

“Dave,” you scold, and he flings open the door and _sprints down the hall._

Sheer force of competition rings in your blood, for whatever reason, and you try to follow as quickly as possible. Dave stops you at the bathroom, closing the door right in your face. Breathing heavily, and laughing, you pound on it with the flat of your hand. 

“Come on!”

“I won, I need to piss, I’m first! Suck it Karkat!” He calls, muffled. 

Feeling daring, you shout back, “Maybe I will!”

The sound of choking comes from the door. It’s quiet for a bit, and the toilet flushes, and Dave breezes right past you. His face is red again, and he waves you into the room after he’s out. 

You smirk at him and strut right in. After doing your business and brushing your teeth, you go back out and find him in the hallway. Dave looks like he’s had a stroke, and just offers you his hand so that he can pull you back to bed. 

His foot closes the door after you both get back into the dark room, and he does. Pull you back to bed, that is. Climbing onto the bed after him feels so natural that you’re a little worried. Placing your arms on his shoulders while his fingers slide up your chin feels similar. It’s all a little uncanny. There’s no way in hell that two people are this compatible. 

But somehow, it turns out that way. His fingertips scrabble clumsily on your neck, as he tilts his head to fit your mouths together again. 

For both some reason and no reason at all, you remain upright. Even though you’re obviously the shorter of the two of you, Dave ends up straddled over your lap. His knees frame your waist, and he lets his biceps frame your faces as you kiss. 

This effectively fucking shoves your arms off his shoulders, but whatever. It gives you the perfect opportunity to get your hands behind him. His butt is very nice to hold, you find. And he grunts a little into your mouth when you grab it. His sweatpants are so soft on your fingertips. It’s very nice. 

Very, very nice. 

“Mmph,” he says, very articulately, into your mouth. 

“What was that?” You ask, and he leans back from you. This time, there’s a glare on _his_ face, and it makes you feel vindictively good. 

Until he puts his face on your neck. 

His lips search for a second, drawing lines over the sensitive flesh covering your pulse. The light tingling sensation makes you freeze. Every movement of his skin on yours is preceded by anticipation and tailed by the light scratch of the stubble still barely protruding from his jaw. Your hands still in their place on Dave’s backside.

And then he bites. The sharp sensation against the smooth and quiet from moments previous makes the breath leave your throat in a sharp gust. Before you know it, you’re groaning and moving your fingers. They find a home on Dave’s back, then his ribs, and the curve of his abdomen. All while he’s making mincemeat of your throat. 

Dave’s body arches into yours as you trace the lines of his torso. He groans in tandem with your growling voice, moving down a few inches on your neck before starting the process over again. 

You don’t have any kind of hyper-sensitive spot where he’s going to town, which you’re a little grateful for. But it is pretty exciting that he seems well and determined to leave you with a badge of honor. Or three. 

When your questing hands come to his chest, he stutters for a second. The skin is even warmer under the shirt. Your fingers are probably warm by now, or at least they should be, after all that time spent wandering. Dave is pausing, waiting to see what you’re going to do, apparently distracted from his focus. 

And who are you to disappoint? 

His nipples are hard under your touch, elastic with the strum of your thumbs. 

Dave moans, then, ripping his mouth from your neck and crashing it into yours. 

The vigor wasn’t something you were expecting. So he has incredibly sensitive nipples when he’s aroused, which is definitely some information to file away. After a second of kissing you again, Dave calms a bit. His mouth is open over yours, breathing peppermint between your teeth. Leaning up to take the kisses back is the next logical step. The next after that is to rub his nipples some more. 

The kisses aren’t as excited, but you do get a few pretty nice groans. And a tongue in your mouth. Dave’s got his arms back around your neck, and he’s getting a little clumsier. But the kisses are still slow, still exciting, still lingering in the most burning way. It’s making you want to get horizontal. 

Not that you weren’t already horizontal earlier, but this is different.

This is making the space between your legs ache, and a need spring up in your forebrain. 

Your own nipples are brushing almost constantly on the inside of your t-shirt, creating a maddening fiction that makes you want the shirt off despite the fact that you don’t get much from that kind of stimulation anyway. 

Dave breaks the no-shirt barrier first. 

And man, is he trim. It’s a contrast to whatever your expectations had been, and you’ve never seen him working out. It’s… odd? But not dissatisfying. You’re not sure that what he looks like under his shirt is important. It’s just that you hadn’t visualized anything while you were feeling him up. 

While you’re debating the potential merits of Dave’s physique, he’s dropped his short sleeve t-shirt over the side of the bed behind you. His skin is so warm, but he shivers in the cool air of the room anyway. There are light fragments of very old scars littering his torso, just barely visible in the half-light. Slash marks and cigarette burns. It’s none of your business right now, so you struggle to not put two and two together with the way he acted in high school. 

Not that you have much room for wondering, as his lips are immediately stealing the show. 

This time, though, he kisses you even slower. The long, dragging pushes of lips. The hot breath and cool inhale. The tongue flicking into your mouth and the barbells on it dragging tantalizingly over your hard palate. 

Mmh, yeah. 

“What was that?” Dave says, teasing you. 

You frown at first. Talking in the middle of makeouts? Unacceptable. “Mmh, yeah,” you repeat, as a sort of sticker for emphasis. That good ol’ stubbornness coming right out. 

Instead of getting him to laugh or keep going, though, Dave’s face turns red. How many fucking times does that have to happen? But it was… what you said, that triggered it. A feeling like a rolling ball tumbles into the nerves on your shoulders, like anxiety but more like a power trip. You let your lips spread into a smirk. 

“Mmmmmh, yeah!” You say, a little louder, more enthusiastically. Throwing in a bit of breath for emphasis. 

Dave closes his eyes, a small, pained sob working its way out of the back of his esophagus. You notice his hips twitch forward, just barely. They’ve probably been doing that for the entire time and you were too distracted to care. 

“Yeah, mmmmh! Yeah!” You try again, a little softer this time, a little more moan-y. Right up against his lips, leaning forward and sighing breathily, for emphasis. And you watch his face go from red to puce in ten seconds. When his eyes open, they’re full of a heat and intent that makes something zing right to the base of your spine. Straight to your crotch. 

“So Karkat,” he says, and you find yourself stilling. The traces of playfulness in you are practically gone, sucked into the sexy-glare-void of his eyes. No problem with that. At all. 

“Yeah?” You ask, ever the eloquent. 

“You change your mind from last night?” He asks. And despite everything, his shirtlessness, the sudden stuffiness of the room, the gaze he’s probably planning on eating you alive with, the question sounds centered. Sure. Cool. The heat is subsided for him to ask you this. 

“I definitely did not,” you admit. “I did not change my mind.”

You tried to sound as soft and controlled as he did, but it proved harder than you thought. 

He takes the answer, though, thankfully. 

“Alright. Well, see, now, I can get you to make those noises for real,” Dave says. 

Despite the rush of arousal that gives you, you snort. “Smooth move,” you tell him. He looks mildly offended before shrugging it off, and moving off your lap. Your front side feels unpleasantly cold once he’s gone. 

“Alright, so how’s about this for a smooth move?” He asks, and rubs his chin. You wait expectantly. “I would really love it if you sat on my face. Is that in the discomfort zone for you?”

It’s your turn to flush as he finishes speaking. 

“Uh,” you say. 

“Cause I really want to get all up and friendly with your crotch crevasse. The devil’s button. The beating bush. The wonder down under. My tongue is Link, you’re the cave, and I’m looking for a piece of the Triforce,” he continues, holding up a hand and checking off fingers. 

“Dave! _Fine!_ ” You almost yell at him. He smiles. “Yes, Dave, I’m comfortable with my genitals! Please stop!” But you’re laughing, despite your horror at his euphemisms. Jesus. The _beating bush?_ The fuck?

“Well thank God,” he tells you, and you’re being pulled into his lap, this time, by the waist. He’s moved up far enough on the bed that he could just tip backwards and have his head on the pillows. That was probably the goal here. 

Dave starts kissing you again, warming up your mouth. A breeze crosses where your shirt is riding up on his hands, and you shiver into his body. He makes a noise in your mouth, and you make the same one back, and his hands start to trace your spine. He leaves your shirt on, which you’re grateful for.

The wonderful power of his lips can’t make your pants better for straddling someone’s lap, though. The cuffs on the legs of your pants are riding up tightly on your calves. You make an angry noise, trying to get closer to Dave crotch-wise, he makes a curious noise, and then you’re peeling off of him at the face. 

He looks a little concerned when you push away from him and turn. When you glance at him as you lay on your back, fingers fitting into the elastic band of your sweats, the concern is quickly evaporating. 

And he’s smirking again! The hell! 

“What?” You snap, as your socks leave your feet with the kicking off of the pants. Dave looks especially amused when you come back to him, fitting your now much chillier self to his front, thighs on either side of his waist. He’s so _warm._

“Eager,” he comments, like he’s so clever, as his hands find their place under your shirt again. It’s the stupid shirt, too, the one Sollux got you with the little cat in the pocket that flips people off when you pull it down. 

Okay, fine, it’s your favorite shirt. 

Whatever. Point is, it’s a pretty thick shirt, so Dave’s hands do a good job of warming up under it. 

“Says the guy who prepared a list of probably eighty euphemisms for pussy to convince me to let him eat it,” you throw back, just before he takes your breath away. Again. 

He does that thing where he drags his tongue bars over your hard palate again, and it makes you shiver for an entirely different reason. You push your boxer-covered hips down on the front of his pants, and he does it again. You grind harder, this time, and he moans instead. 

“Says the guy who started fake-moaning to get me excited,” he gets back at you when you stop to breathe. 

“Says the guy,” you try, scraping all ten nails across the back of his scalp. Wrecking his stupid orange-dyed hair. “Who,” kiss, pant, “…went,” Another kiss, a gasp, “for it,” you manage to finish. 

Dave laughs again, and leans back a little. You get the gist and follow him down, readjusting your knees so that you don’t wear them out yet. Yet. Oh jeez. The thought has you heating up more, and it’s either you or the mouse in your pocket that emits a high noise when Dave palms the fronts of your bare thighs with intent. 

He doesn’t pull you up, yet, though. Seemingly content to keep nibbling your lips, he hums. His fingers run through the hair on your calves, and he hums again. You only shave sometimes when you feel like it, a habit lost in high school when you realized that you saved a ton of time in the shower not making your legs into dolphin texture. It does feel nice occasionally, though. The smoothness of it. The leg hair not pulling on the inside of your jeans is a perk, too. 

Whatever. 

Tangent in your head fully explored, you barely notice it when Dave hooks his thumbs in the band of your boxers. It makes you yelp when he pulls down on them, just trying to slide them off. And he stops, going tense. 

Pulling back, you afford him a glance. He looks concerned. 

“You okay?” He asks. “Was that not alright? …are you not clean or something? Do I need to dial it down?” 

You try not to sigh at him, because he’s just being concerned. Courteous. 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I’m clean. Got distracted,” you explain, and he looks mildly disappointed. Like you getting distracted means that he’s not doing a very good job. 

“Well, can I continue? I’m clean too, just an FYI. Maybe I could get the distraction outta here?” He asks, dipping his index finger under the band of the offending garment again and popping it gently against your skin. 

You laugh a little. 

“Yeah, sorry. By all means, go ahead,” you say. 

And he does, exposing inch after inch of your bare ass to the less-chilly-than-when-you-woke room. You lean down to kiss him again as he pulls the cotton over first one knee, and then the other. You wish absurdly that you could fit your entire body to the furnace that is his chest. You settle for laying your stomach against it, and your forearms around his head. 

Man, you wish you’d closed the window. The underpants hit the floor to the side of the bed. 

His fingers are still somehow hot when he runs both sets gently over your backside, and down to the creases of your thighs. You sigh into his mouth, he flicks his tongue into it and draws one hand forward to drag slowly over your pubic mound. 

His ring finger catches your clit, and you let out a surprised moan, straight into his mouth. 

**_Wait._**

Even as Dave is moaning back, and letting his palm finish its journey, you’re pushing away from his face. 

“Dave,” you say. 

“Karkat, my dude,” he says back. “Buddy, old pal, host with the most, k-dog, the dude with a ‘tude—“

“The window is open,” you tell him. He seems to have no issue with that. 

“And? It’s been open. The curtains should be enough to like, mute public indecency if that’s what you’re worried about,” he replies, confused. He’s holding your waist again. It seems to take him a minute to get what you’re saying. “Ohhhh,” he realizes, absolute clandestine wonderment filling his eyes to the point where you think he might have seen God Himself. “Do you get super loud or something?” He wonders aloud. Your blush is apparently answer enough. He looks excited by the prospect. 

“Well, you want me to close it?” He asks. And it’s a fair question, because you haven’t gotten up to do it. To be fair, he’s very warm, and the window is bound to be the coldest spot in the room. 

“Well,” you say, and somehow manage to come up with a reason that your lazy, black heart loves. “I’m already mostly naked. And I’m not fond of public nudity, even through windows.” 

Dave sighs, and removes his hands from you. “Get off. I’ll do it,” he says. And you regretfully roll to the side. Of course, as he rolls off the bed, you’re left in his warm spot, and can’t complain too much. The flex of his back in the shadows of the room makes you throb. The deftness, but care of his fingers as he opens the curtain makes it happen again. 

The brightness of the light through the window stings your eyes a little as he closes the open pane. But his profile being lit by the sun is beautiful. 

He gets back to the bed, walking a little funny around the circus tent in his pants, to your immense amusement, and lays back down in the same spot. You assume the previous position atop him. He kisses you silly for a moment before his hands find their places on your thighs again.

It’s like you didn’t stop at all, except for the fact that it’s now slightly warmer in the room. The curtains had been shut fully once more, so it’s comfortably dim. 

Dave pulls at your thighs instead of squeezing, and you eagerly take the hint. He pulls gently until you’re unable to keep kissing him, until your shirt is brushing his brow, until your hands are on the low headboard for balance and you’re kneeling over his face. 

“Time for brunch,” he says, with a look like he’s fully aware how bad that joke was, before he’s cocking his chin up and licking a soft stripe from the bottom to the top of your slit. The bars in his tongue pass in a horribly amazing way over your clit and you’re gone, crying out and white-knuckling the headboard. 

Dave’s hands frame your thighs, still, but their grip is strong, holding you in place. A few more strokes of his tongue and your legs are already shaking. It’s been a really long time, okay? And his tongue is apparently very, uh, uh…

He’s pulling your thighs down, getting you closer to the pillow you’re kneeling over. It’s a test of strength and perseverance not to just drop, but he’d probably get hurt that way. So you brace both of your elbows firmly on the headboard, and work with him. 

His tongue goes into your cunt, then, and you almost go completely weak. He licks up from inside, across your cursed nub of eight thousand nerve endings diagonally twice, and then pulls you down a little further. His grip loosens a little, and when you glance down at him he’s giving you a very pointed look that makes your face feel so hot you’re practically exfoliating. 

“C’mon, man,” he tries, muffled. And you lower further, panting. Unsure of how exactly he likes to do this. His arms wrap around your thighs, and you look at the wall and let yourself go. Dave’s face catches what remainder of the tension you drop on him, and his tongue _goes to work._

You’re releasing a steady stream of “yeah,” and “fuck,” within seconds as he uses the tongue ring for what he probably got it for, making a meal of your modesty. That thought makes you grind down on his face and lean heavily on your elbows. Dave moans into the center and you let out some kind of high gasping yell that you’ve never heard from yourself. He focuses on your clit for a bit, and your upper register could crack the ceiling. 

Breathless, scrabbling at the wall, grinding down on Dave’s very talented mouth. You’re going to lose it soon, you can feel yourself spasming, and you try to slow your hips. Their movement stutters with the attempt. 

“Ha-ahh, Dave,” you try, attempting to slow down. He gives your clit some more TLC, unyielding, and you almost shout. “Daahh-ah, Dave.”

“Hmm?” He hums, directly on you, and you look down to glare at him the best you can. Which must not be very well, if his raised eyebrows are any indication. 

With a lot of regret in your heart, and a shuddering exhalation, you lift yourself a bit on your thighs. Dave lets his mouth come unstuck with a very wet slicking noise, and some lip-smacking on his part. His chin is practically glistening. Christ.

“Don’t want to… yet,” you explain, panting into your arms on the headboard. Your cunt twitches. “Coming twice is tiring.”

Dave pets your quaking thighs, rubbing gently on the sensitized inside and massaging your calves. Fuck. 

“Well, thankfully, we’re in a bed. So. Kinda takes care of the tiring thing,” he says, like it’s that simple. And it is. Your brain, coasting on the rim of prurient bliss and whirling sexual frustration at edging yourself, wants to let him do as he pleases. 

“Yeah, well, maybe I wanna get fucked today,” you grumble, not yet ready to move back. Dave kisses the inside of your thigh, absently mouths on the skin. God help you, if he gives you a hickey there. 

And oops, you spoke too soon. 

As Dave sucks the skin into his mouth, fingers still gently massaging your calves, you shake even harder. You’re twitching more, and can feel your own fluid dripping down the inside of your left thigh as he bites and soothes a bruise into your skin. 

“Because unfortunately-ahh, I didn’t, uh, bring my straaa-ahh-hhpon,” you manage. 

Dave stops, and you look down. There’s a fairly savage and good-sized red mark forming, and his eyes… he seems _very_ interested in the fact that you have a strap-on. Next time, then, definitely. 

Jeez and you’re thinking about a next time? 

Well, regardless of if you end up actually dating or not, Dave _has_ turned out to be a good lay so far. If you do say so yourself. And you do. Say so yourself. 

Of course, next thing you know, you’re being rolled over to your back, and Dave is between your legs again. He moves over you with intent, light bulb of idea discovery practically shining over his forehead. After wiping his face on the covers, he crawls over you and starts devouring your mouth once more. He tastes like you, but you’re not complaining. It’s not a bad taste. 

The heady flavor makes your head effectively spin, though. Dave’s body is over yours, and you finally feel warm since taking your pants off. He props himself up on one arm, and his other hand ventures greedily south to run over the apex of your thighs again. When this makes you moan, he moans in tandem. 

“So fucking sexy,” he says, mindless, and you go searching for his pants tie. It’s already undone, and you’re surprised to find his dick already halfway out and hard as a metaphor for a really hard thing in your palm. Was he touching himself while you were riding his face? When? Was there a point when only one of his arms was around your thighs? Holy shit. 

Dave laughs, choking on the giggles as you caress his swollen cock.

“You know what, Karkat?” He asks, panting in your ear, now. From what you can see, his neck and ears are bright fucking red. 

“What?” You ask, with a deep grunt as he slips a finger into you, and then two when the going is easy. 

“You should use that sexy, ah, gravelly voice of yours,” he quiets, even as he moans into your ear. His fingers push in and out of you deliberately, searchingly, even as you tightly wrap your hand around his dick. He breathes heavily into your neck. “You should tell me, ah, exactly how you’d fuck me.”

Your nerves light up, and you groan, guttural, as he finds your G spot. With some mild success. You’ve never been able to find that blasted fucking thing and here he goes, getting a partial hit on the first go-around. 

Fine. Dirty talk is a great idea. If he can find your G-spot, then you can stroke his in spirit. 

Shoving his pants and underwear further out of the way, you growl in his ear. “Well. I’d start by telling you that you’re a fucking menace,” you say, and he laughs even as he’s moaning in satisfaction. He finds that spot again, crooking his fingers into it, and you moan deeply once more. 

“And then I’d bend you over your desk, or your fucking sofa, and I’d take my-aaaahhhh, my hands,” you whisper to his ear, as he kisses your neck. “And I’d run them all over you before I’d open you nice and slow.” 

Dave makes a strangled noise as you fondle his balls, hips thrusting forward into the space between your bodies. 

“I’d tease you until you were squirming, writhing,” you manage to say smoothly, trying to get your voice as deep as possible for him. “And when you were on the edge with nowhere left to go…”

Dave presses a third finger into you easily, and you groan. It’s so full but it’s not enough yet. So you continue, getting the feeling that he wants to hear the rest of the story. 

“I’d fuck your brains out. Right on the fucking desk. Till you couldn’t, ahh, breathe. Till you were,” you suck in a deep breath, “Crying for release,” you snarl as he punishes the spot inside of you, making your entire lower body spasm in the dim facsimile of a tiny orgasm. The air rushes out of you, and you pant with high breaths in his ear until he stops. 

“God, now fuck me, Dave,” you’re saying, eyes almost closed, and your hand is being pulled away from his dick. The fingers are withdrawn from you and you hear the scrabbled opening of a foil packet. Trying to open your eyes more, you sit up slightly. He seems to be breathing too hard to focus, hands shaking with poorly maintained restraint as he rolls it on. 

So you help. It’s easier for you, for some reason. And you get it on. It’s a blessing that you don’t have to move too much to do that.

“Front okay?” He asks, clearly almost forgetting to, and you’re nodding and laying back down. The world is slowly coming back into better focus.

Dave shuffles forward, pushing your legs apart far enough that it makes your cunt twitch needily. He lifts your hips so that your lower back is sitting on the tops of his thighs, and he pushes in. 

His wet fingers slip on your waist as he pushes to the hilt. One long, sustained moan releases from your lips, and you sigh when he stills. And Dave is still for a long, long moment. You take this moment to wiggle around and adjust, letting yourself get accustomed to the size of him. He’s not big, but definitely not small. Ideal size for you, actually. 

He’s bracing on one hand on the bed, the other tracing your navel again. This time, it scratches lightly. Gets your attention. His red eyes are glued to yours, his mouth slightly open with his gulps, and he’s beautiful like this. Stomach muscles gently flexing on the underside of your thighs. You spread your legs a little further, and he groans as he sinks just a little further in. 

“Well, come on. I said fuck me, not sit around,” you say, eventually. 

And he does. 

Oh, boy, he does. 

Dave starts a pace only matched by the fucking electromagnetic train rails in Japan. Quick and direct, his thrusts are strong and long and for _Christs SAKE how many times is he going to find that?!_

He leans close enough to kiss, covering your body again. You match his mouth, rolling your hips up to every thrust you can and pulling him in with your feet. One of your hands finds the hair at the nape of his neck, and he groans as it pulls. The other one of your hands ends up gripping the sheets over your head as you chant his name, over and over and over. 

Before long, you’re tensing bodily and spasming around him, writhing like you told him you would make him do under _you_ as you go over the shaky precipice. His hands claw down your hips as you clench on his dick, and he shakily moans into your neck as he follows you down into the abyss. You can practically hear his toes curl in the sheets, and the warm sigh of his orgasm leaving his mouth.

And then he collapses on you. 

“Ugh, Strider,” you grumble. It’s only halfhearted. 

He knows it.

He mumbles something incoherent into your hair, and then you can feel him laughing. 

“What?” You ask, weakly putting up a front of taciturn attitude when you’re about as blissed out as a cat with five pounds of catnip. All of your fingers curl in the sheets over your head, and you sigh. Dave kind of sits up a bit, pulls off the condom, ties it, and drops it in the bin next to the bed. He then tucks in his pocket snake. (Sorry, yes, that was terrible. You’re in a really goofy mood, though.)

When he stands up and heads out of the room, you don’t have the energy to follow him or ask what he’s doing. And like a complete gentleman, he comes back with a soft wet cloth for your legs. He wipes his face and chin, first, with one side, and you look up at the ceiling in embarrassment as he gently wipes down the center of your thighs. You cover your face with your arms when he swipes up the middle. Well, at least now you don’t feel like you have to shower. 

The washcloth gets put somewhere, you guess, and your boxers hit you in the chest. It’s something no one’s done without asking before, but you can’t find yourself complaining about it. The chance to cover back up when it's cold is something you won't turn down. And it turns out he’s not much of a naked cuddler, either. Thank God. Dave sinks back onto the bed, face-first, laughing some more. 

It takes you a couple of minutes to put your underpants back on. Fuck. You’re gonna be real sore in about five hours, probably. You’re all stiff and it feels so good.

A glance at the clock shows you it’s just after one. You were occupied for that long? Holy shit. 

“What are you laughing about?” You grumble at Dave. Because he’s still giggling a little. 

Something gets muffled into the rumpled comforter, and he giggles some more. 

“What?” You ask again, falling back and sinking into your previously vacated spot. Everything smells like Dave. It’s great. The sheets are so soft on your skin. And you’re definitely not cold anymore. But you roll over and fit yourself to his side anyway. 

Dave turns his head. “I said that was pretty great, huh?” He says. And he has, by far, the stupidest smile you’ve ever seen on his face. It makes you smile, too, though. “It actually _was_ two hours. Apparently Fabio McSnuggles von Purrmusk wasn’t too far off. Got a fucking critical on _you._ ”

“Yeah,” you say, and laugh. “Fucking nerd.”

Dave pauses for a minute, and then looks into your eyes. 

“So. Wanna be my boyfriend?”

You consider him.

“Yeah,” you repeat. And smile at him. And Dave smiles so much his face might split in two. He reaches out to straighten your errant septum ring.

“Pizza? I’ll pay,” he asks, and you have to kiss him silly again.

 

 

* * *

 

You’re busy backing Dave into the kitchen counter when John gets home around two. Dave’s fingers are already creeping up the underside of your hoodie that you put back on because fuck it if you’re wearing just a t-shirt and boxers when it’s below forty degrees outside.

You don’t hear the keys in the door, because you’re too busy kissing the moron that insisted on ordering none pizza with left beef (he also ordered a regular pepperoni, but he’s still an idiot).

“Hey guys, wow, thankfully it smells like pizza!” John says as he walks in, and strides past you and Dave, who are frozen against the counter with wide eyes. 

He puts away some groceries, and the kitchen is silent. 

“Uh, why are you home so early?” Dave asks him. 

John finishes putting the food away, pivots, and grins. He ruffles your hair and you make some vaguely negative noises at him, slapping his hand away. 

“I had a day off! Maybe check the house or leave a note next time!” He says, and gives you a look. “And my, aren’t we _loud_. Thankfully I had errands to run and I didn’t feel like sleeping in today!”

John gives Dave the same look, and Dave looks vaguely frightened. 

After he’s gone, Dave very slowly turns back to you, panic in his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

He turns up at your place with a duffle bag the following weekend. And hair the color of oops paint mixed with green baby vomit. And several slowly fading sharpie dicks drawn on his face. After you finish laughing so hard you almost pop a muscle in your binder, you scrub the dicks off. Dave didn’t know they came off with good hand soap and a washcloth. 

When you keep laughing about the hair, he tells you to suck it. You make good on his warning this time.

To Sollux’s chagrin, _he’s_ the one being kept up all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! So this thing is starting to turn into an idea monster in my head. oops! updates will be sporadic at best, because im working on finishing In Name and In Deed! but i'm fairly certain it's going to have more than two or three chapters. ive never written a fic about an established relationship but i think i might give it a shot! 
> 
> sorry for the sudden 7k of porn! hahaha
> 
> i would like people to know that if i continue it, it would be a love story about a relationship with ups and downs, not a story about being trans. i am also apologizing in advance if i did anything offensive while writing this! i was just trying to write a good sex scene! if you see something that is offensive (because I do realize that as a cisgendered woman i am bound to do passively transphobic things without realizing) and want me to change it or anything else, let me know on tumblr and i can see about that. :) karkat in this case is an individual that is comfortable with his genitals, and secure in his gender.
> 
> love y'all!


	3. Chapter 3

When Dave texts you and asks if you’d like to go to the beach this weekend, you almost drop your phone into your pho. In disbelief, of course. You’ve been together for a month now, so it’s not like it’s surprise that he’s actually asking you out on a goddamn date for once. 

Jade fucking Harley is sitting across the table from you. She’s holding one of those big fucking spoons that comes with soup, whatever they call them, halfway to her mouth. The end of a bean sprout is tickling her chin. And she’s trying not to laugh at you as you heave, clutching your chest. You just lost your hand-me-down Otter Box last week, and your crappy old android would not have survived a hundred and fifty degrees of broth and hoisin.

She’s been Jade fucking Harley, those exact three words, ever since she stole Salutatorian from you in senior year of high school. It’s a friendly rapport, it always has been. She calls you the same. Not “Jade fucking Harley” of course, but… whatever. Fill in the blanks on your own, a chimp could do it. 

Equius ended up getting valedictorian, anyway. Somehow. The obsession with getting _“100% at all times, Karkat”_ must have done it. God he was weird. And sweaty. Jesus. Assuredly it was a surprise to almost everyone when he got the plaque next to the counselor's office, except Nepeta and the entire robotics club.

At graduation, you cheered the loudest for Jade, because she didn’t have anyone else. Her grandfather had just died, and she was living with her cousin, who had been on an emergency trip to an excavation in South America. Whatever. Jade is great, you made a lot of noise and almost got kicked out of the stadium. You hadn’t talked much at all before that, but after, you were decently close friends. Not that you spend too much time together at all anymore.

Right now, she’s sitting across from you and finishing her spoon’s journey to its final destination. Her miles of wild black hair are caught up in a bun atop her head. It’s Jade-and-Karkat-get-pho-and-catch-up night. You had just been checking your phone as you shredded some basil leaves by hand.

“That Dave?” She asks you, and you nod. 

“Booty call?” She asks, a teasing lilt to her voice, and you find your face heating. "Does it count as a booty call if it's your incredibly smart and handsome boyfriend?"

“No,” you mutter. “Eat your noodles.” 

You lean back from the table and reopen your phone. 

you wanna have a picnic on the beach this weekend?

TO DAVE: IT’S JANUARY.

uh yeah but its supposed to be like sixty degrees saturday so yes or no come to the beach with me

NO.

please

BUT YOU’RE DRIVING AND I’M NOT DOING SHIT.

all you need to bring is your fine self ill pick you up at five

“So? What is it?” Jade asks you, when you drop your phone on the bench seat. You lean forward to take a mouthful of noodles while they’re still hot. It’s delicious, and you nearly moan. Delicious food for fairly cheap, and the bowl is just so big. You’re in heaven.

“He wants to go on a date this weekend,” you tell her, after swallowing. 

Jade claps her hands together. “Ooh, yes, tell me, what kind of date?!”

She looks so eager that you have to humor her. “A picnic on the beach.”

And she looks markedly less excited. Face screwing down in a little bit of disbelief and confusion, she picks her chopsticks back up and eats some of the meat from her pho. “Well, I can’t say I would want to do that this time of year,” she says. You nod in agreement.

And then she snorts. 

“He’s probably trying to be super romantic. Dave is so cheesy, honestly. And he knows how much you like romantic movies,” she laughs into her bowl. 

Groaning, you flatten a palm to your forehead. “Wow, how creative. Sweet, but seriously. How typical.”

“Well, listen to you, judgement king of the hour,” Jade says, and you glare at her as you slurp your noodles. 

“I’m entitled to my fucking opinion, Jade. Of course I still think it’s sweet.”

When you look up again, she’s leaning forward on her hands. They’re propped sweetly under her chin, and she’s giving you the huge puppy eyes. “Awwwwww.”

“Oh shut up. You’re worse than Feferi. Honestly,” you grumble. Your face feels hot again. 

“You think he’s gonna bring candles? And a boom box? And you’ll make out on a blanket in the dark and eat strawberries from each others’ hands? And—“

You throw a noodle at her face, and it sticks. Jade giggles furiously as you snort into your hand. The noodle cuts across her nose and cheek, and just sticks there. It’s amazing. A bit of her concealer is rubbing off onto it.

 

* * *

 

So, Dave picks you up at five o’clock and five minutes. 

While you’re complaining that he was astronomically and unforgivably late, and tugging at the hem of your sweater to straighten it, he’s wrapping his arms around you. Dave busies himself with kissing you a lot, every time like it’s the first. His hands skim up your waist and down again, fingers fiddling with the elastic on the bottom edge as he draws away. 

He leads you to his car, and happily places a basket in your lap when you sit in the passenger seat. 

“Don’t open it. But look! I got a cute little basket and everything,” he says, so proud of himself, and you try to give him a withering look. You fail, and he laughs when your mouth cracks into a smile instead. 

He was right. It’s only about fifty-five degrees outside, despite it being January. It’s going to get cold later, most likely, but it won’t be too bad for outside activities. Jesus, “activities”, your internal narrator should be fired. 

Dave backs out of the space he was in, and you inspect the basket. It’s about the size of a microwave, and has a little red checkered liner sticking out of the side. In ruffles. It’s so fucking cute. There’s a blanket hanging out of one side, also checkered. And when you look into the backseat, you see a couple of pillows and blankets. In case it gets too chilly? You’re dying here.

He jumps when you wind your fingers in between his on the gearshift. From a profile view, you can see his face light up with his smile. Dave is so easy to please. 

It’s a little difficult to manage without crushing his hand or undoing your seatbelt, but you lean over to give him a kiss on the cheek. Dave, ever the conscious safety manager at the steering wheel, splutters and doesn’t look away from the road.

 

* * *

 

It’s dark by the time you arrive at a little parking lot. It strikes you that you didn’t think before of how you’d be getting to the beach. You live at least six hours from the nearest ocean or sea. 

Turns out it’s a lakeside beach. Dave stops the car, and thankfully there are streetlights and things that light a path down toward the water. 

You get out before he can, and take the basket with you. When you turn toward his side of the car again, he’s holding the pillows and blankets under one arm and grinning wildly at you. 

“A lake beach?” You ask. He snorts, and pushes the button on his key fob to lock the vehicle. 

“Yeah. Problem?” 

You gesture for him to lead the way, and raise your eyebrows. 

Dave does. He takes you across a few different little bridges, down some steps, and onto a little sandy, dark, and scrubby expanse. When you take off your shoes, he does the same. It’s a short walk to a flatter part of the little man-made beach, and soon enough you’re laying out the picnic blanket and sitting. 

It takes Dave a minute to set up. He sets out several candles, burying them in the sand a good distance around you. He sets out some plates on the blanket, stacks the pillows and extra blankets in one corner, and pulls a couple of bottles of water from the basket. There’s a vase of roses in there, too, that he sets into the sand, and a little jar with breadsticks in it. 

“Seriously?” You ask aloud, and he snorts again. 

“Yeah. Problem?”

If anyone couldn’t tell, this type of exchange happens a lot. 

Dave tugs your hand, and you sit on the picnic blanket next to him. He pulls out a casserole dish with a lasagna in it, and you just know that it’s one of the kind that you bake from frozen. But from the look of it, he got the good shit. Stouffer’s.

“God yes,” you mutter, and he grins at you. 

“Save it for later,” he tells you, with an outrageous wink. It’s so difficult not to roll your eyes that you succumb to the urge without hesitation. 

“Only if you’re lucky, asshole.” 

“What about my lucky asshole?” He asks you, feigning innocent. You level him with a _look_. 

He pulls out a spatula to dole out lasagna. 

It steams in the cooler air. You shift one of the extra blankets over your lap, before digging in. A small part of you is grateful that he ditched the salad for the meal. Of course, that’s when he pulls out the asparagus. It’s roasted. That’s definitely not from a frozen meal box. 

“Oh _God_ yes,” you practically groan, shoving your plate at him. Dave’s cheeks are a little red in the candlelight when he serves you some of the asparagus. 

It tastes better than it looks, and Dave looks like the best mix of turned on and prideful when you moan around a mouthful. 

“Jesus, Dave, when the fuck did you learn to cook?” Your mouth is practically full, but you speak anyway. It makes him laugh a little, and he pulls out his phone to take a picture of the spread. 

“I had John walk me through half of it. I owe him big time. The lasagna is his recipe.”

Oh my _God_. So it’s real lasagna?? 

He’s totally getting laid tonight. No fucking doubt. 

“No shit,” you say, mouth slightly agape. 

He nods, and puts his phone in the picnic basket for safekeeping. 

The light from his screen going out reminds you of something. It’s awfully quiet out here. You set down your plate and fork, and take out your own phone. It takes a second to decide. When you put your phone out on the blanket, screen locked, you have your Eighties Rock Ballads station playing on your phone. 

Dave laughs. “ _Faithfully_? Really?” 

His voice carries pleasantly over the soft guitar, and you punch him in the shoulder. 

“Lay off, I happen to think it’s romantic,” you say. 

He giggles a little, and leans over to peck your lips. “Yeah, it’s real romantic. Thanks for providing.”

You push his face away after kissing him back. His skin almost tugs at your fingertips, begging for a more lingering touch. Water trickles in the lake, and you’re glued to his eyes. His shades have fallen down his nose a bit. His eyelashes are so long. It’s unfair to an inhumane degree. 

Dave slips his shades off the rest of the way, and you pick your lasagna back up. 

It’s fairly quiet while you both eat, and a cricket chirps nearby. The sky is still ever so slightly pink from the setting sun. Maybe it’s just the city in the distance. 

The silence is nice, though you very nearly start to regret your choice in music. The ballads are making it feel so much softer in the air than you normally want. So sentimental. They carry as much implication as you singing ‘Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing’ to your ex at your high school prom. Then, you didn’t mean it as much as you liked the song. Now… you’re not so sure. Dave would probably sing it with you, if you sang along. He’s cool like that.

Dave runs the back of his hand up your side, and arm. It makes your mind go thankfully blank, and you sigh. Even as you eat more of the orgasmically good food on your plate. The warmth of it makes you crave his body heat. It’s always so easy to crave his body heat, honestly. 

A chill wind makes you shiver, and Dave puts down his food. With his hands free, he settles behind you.

His stomach is so nice on your back, and you let yourself lean on his chest as his legs position themselves around you. Warm arms drape into your lap, and he hooks his chin over your shoulder. His hands slip into your hoodie pocket.

“Hmm. Sounds so weird to hear you eating from here,” he says. 

“Yeah, well go away if you don’t like it,” you grumble. “No matter how much I want to cuddle right now, this food is fucking good. I plan on finishing it.”

Dave’s face is hot when he pushes it into your shoulder, and he makes a strained noise. 

“I can’t even believe you like my food,” he admits softly. 

“Dave, I would tell you if it sucked. You _know_ me. It’s awesome. Please take more lessons from John, you’re a natural.” 

He makes some more muffled noises of unpinned affection, and tightens his arms on you for a few seconds before letting them go again. His body relaxes into you, and you gladly take the weight. "Yeah, well fuck me for wanting to know when people like shit, I guess," he murmurs.

Soon enough you’re done with your lasagna. Washing it down with a few gulps of water, you turn your head just enough to see the top of his head. 

“Any dessert?” You ask him. He nearly startles, as if he’d been dozing against your spine. His arms grip you like a vice for a few seconds before he seems to remember where he is. The index finger and thumb on each of his hands fondle the fleece inside your pocket as he slowly revs back up to full consciousness. 

“I got John to help me make real cocoa for you, too,” he informs you. “It’s got cinnamon and ancho chili in it.”

“God, you’re _so_ getting laid tonight,” you admit out loud. Dave hums against your spine. 

“We could skip dessert,” he says, hands splaying against your stomach from inside the hoodie pocket. “I know what I would rather have, anyway.”

“Oh fuck no,” you say, halfheartedly slapping his left arm, and setting down your plate. “Awesome cocoa first, and then I’ll suck your dick in the car. Deal?” 

It always seems to catch him wildly off guard when you make sexual propostitions at him. This time, he seizes fully. His knees clench where he’s coiled around you. He makes a strangled sound into your neck. It makes you laugh, and he sighs grumpily into your skin. 

“You just love pushing my buttons, don’t you?” He asks, even as he unwraps his hoodie-covered self from around you enough to grab at the basket. It’s not long before he’s at your back again, and you’re being handed a small thermos. The lid is off, and the smell coming from within is divine. 

“You make it so easy,” you tell him before taking a mouthful of the hot drink. It’s just the right temperature to still be hot, but not burn your tongue. You’ve died and gone to heaven, with how delicious this shit is. Christ. 

There’s a sober moment, and you pause. 

“I can stop if you want,” you say. “You haven’t said that teasing like that makes you that uncomfortable… but I can lay off if you want.”

Dave makes a happy noise, this time, and his hands leave your pocket to clench around your middle. 

“It’s okay. I like it. It's funny,” he says. You sigh with relief. If you had been hurting him all this time… that would have been so bad. You’re so glad that’s not the case. 

Dave seems to have relaxed into you even more than before, though. It must be hard on his back to sit like that, right? But he seems perfectly content to form himself to your back. His mouth drags very softly on the skin of your neck, and the candles flicker pleasantly on the skin of his hands. The air is chilly on your inhales, and your breath barely makes fog. 

More cricket chirps. 

You have to set the thermos of sweet life nectar down when his lips press just a little harder, under the hollow of your ear. 

You close the thermos, stick it in the sand, and whip around in Dave’s arms. He looks delighted at your actions, and when you push him down on the blanket, he goes very willingly. 

There are a few, maybe a hundred, long kisses. The candles make for such pleasant light as you sit astride his waist, and take your hands up into his hair. Dave is just full of satisfied hums and grateful gasps as you fit your mouth firmly to his. 

It’s so warm between the two of you. The night didn’t chill as much as you thought it would, and the breaths he exhales are more than enough to keep you from shivering from the cold. Hot palms on your hips, however. Those make you shiver for an entirely different reason. 

The making out is slow, languid. Waxy, and warm like honey in tea, like fresh laundry, like the melting of a thousand tiny curls of sweet milk chocolate. 

You let yourself settle down fully against his body. It’s easy for your weight to settle into Dave’s chest, for you to lean on your elbows and him to pull you down against him. It’s a lazy descent, an unhurried motion to get you closer together. A pleasant heat floods you, and Dave makes happy sounds into your mouth. He likes this, too. 

Urgency takes one look at the situation and high-tails it out of there. 

Urgency sees the sticky lips practically smudging at each other, and does a fucking pirouette off the proverbial handle of the situational frying pan. 

You’re the first to open your mouth.

Dave follows suit, and carves your lips ajar with his tongue. Slow breaths, slow lips, slow eyes fluttering open for a brief moment before Dave puts his weight to the side. With his full body he turns you, lays you out on your side. It’s easier for you to leave your arms on the sides of his head. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

It’s so relaxing to be here, to be out in this fresh air, extracting kiss after liquefied kiss from this eager mouth. It’s so relaxing that you just go with it, and sigh, when Dave coaxes your thigh to hook around his hip. 

No, you won’t do anything out here in the open. You’ve got enough of a mind to not be at risk for a public indecency charge. 

But Dave is so _warm._

And that song about the ‘baby you’re all that I want’ is playing. And you’re a sucker. A real goddamn sucker. 

You want to wrap your whole self around him, but you settle for tightening your calf around the back of his thigh. 

There’s some kind of trend with you and Dave and kissing in cold places. 

He sighs, contented. 

It’s amazing. You’re drowsy from the food, and the cocoa, and his hands are so perfect on you. 

The song ends.

An ad for Male Enhancement starts playing, glaringly loud. 

And for some reason, Dave starts giggling. It starts a trend, and you start giggle furiously as well. 

“God, _fuck_ this streaming app,” Dave says, between laughs. 

The mood is well and fully and totally obliterated. 

“Let’s go home? Your place maybe?” You ask, once the giggles have died out. 

“Yeah. I heard something somewhere about receiving a fantastic blowjob for this awesome meal?” He asks. You scoff, and push him back. 

“I can’t attest to the quality, but sure. I did say so, didn’t I?”

Dave looks eager about the prospect, anyway, and sits up slowly to put the dishes and things back in the basket. You push up as well, and use his shoulder to get to your feet. After flipping your phone to off, you twist your back to stretch.

“I’m gonna hit the head before we go,” you tell him. Dave nods, pats you lovingly on the ass, and then goes back to figuring out how to properly re-fold his blankets. 

So you go, and find the nearest public washroom (not that far, and surprisingly sanitary), and discover possibly the worst thing ever. For the night. That is.

Dave has everything all packed, and he’s putting out the first candle when you return. You must have the angriest fucking look on your face, if his reaction is any judge.

God, why did it have to happen today? Tonight of all nights. 

“Is something wrong?”

You hadn’t even realized that you weren’t looking Dave in the eye. He looks so worried when you look up at him. It’s so sudden that you feel awful. Standing there in the candlelight, face screwed up, and just wanting to go home already. He doesn’t even know why. 

“Yeah. I just want to go home. Not feeling well.” 

Dave almost closes off. You see it happen in his face. He’s so close to shutting out, but he very visibly suppresses that urge, and stands to meet you more at eye level. It’s not hard to meet him in the eye, now that you’ve done it. But your face settles into a scowl. It’s annoying, it’s frustrating, infuriating. 

“What? Are you okay?” He asks. You frown a little deeper. No matter what you can think of, it makes you irritated. 

You’ve been on long-term birth control for a long time, now. It was supposed to rid you of this problem entirely, for awhile. But every now and again, it still happens. Nothing is a hundred percent.

“I haven’t menstruated in more than eight months. And I am now. So no. I’m not really okay. And it’d be great if we could stop by Walgreens on the way back.”

The look that comes over Dave’s face is not what you expected. The first thing that crosses it is relief, and the second thing that crosses it is hilarity, and then everything else is washed out by concern. Of course, it’s like a lightbulb appears over his head, and he kneels down. 

A tampon is presented to you. 

_Like a sword to a knight._

Where did he even pull that from. 

You have a brief moment where you feel hysterical laughter bubble up in your throat. 

“Here, man. I mean, unless you really wanna go home anyway. I understand. I hear that shit sucks. From like, everyone. Jade loves telling me about it for whatever godforsaken reason,” Dave rambles a bit, still holding out the green-covered plastic packaging. 

You snort, and glare, astonished. A quick crane of your head shows you that he brought that little backpack he likes to carry everywhere. It’s in the picnic basket. 

“What?” Dave says, looking a little to the side before letting his eyes snap back to you. “I have a lot of friends who have periods. I carry some shit. I have like, pads too, but the boxers you usually wear aren’t really conducive to that, so.”

“It’s a little… rude to just… ask, Dave,” you tell him. 

He looks confused, and then his face contorts into something more neutral. He just wants to help, Lord save him. Face so sweet, sword of tampon held steadily in his hand, offering it to the dragon so that he might be sated by the gift. 

Your metaphors are getting away from you. 

It’s starting to make you want to laugh, though. This whole thing. 

“We’re sitting alone, out at the side of a lake at night. I’m sorry I misjudged, I thought it would be okay. I’m sorry, man,” he tells you. And God, he’s so earnest. And he made you this wonderful dinner, and he’s not even the normal amount of disgusted any other cis guy would tend to be about the fact that menstruation even exists. And _God_. He carries tampons for his friends that have periods. 

Something about the fact that your heart is throbbing is making your standards feel incredibly low. 

“Well…” you drag off. Look away a little. 

Dave holds out a placating hand beside the tampon. He’s just waving it around, there, in the dark. “Look. I know your junk intimately already. On a face-to-face basis. I don’t care, at least let me offer until you get home. It’s a bit of a drive, anyway.”

Your anger all funnels into anger about the situation itself. The bathroom you just came from isn’t that far away. He’s trying so hard to not be pushy about taking care of you. You know what? Fine.

“No wonder you carry one of those little backpacks everywhere,” you snap.

“I’m actually a drug dealer, dear, it’s an occupational hazard,” he says, as a grin takes over the worry on his mouth. 

You have to laugh out loud at that. “No way could you be a dealer, Dave. You’re the opposite of subtle.”

“The polar opposite,” he confirms, still on the ground on his knees. “Yes or no, babe.”

“Sure,” you say. “Not like it’s not the best option out here, anyway.” You hold out your hand expectantly.

“Tampon me, ‘bro’,” you command.

Dave is so excited that you’re accepting his help, he almost drops it in the sand. 

When you get back from the bathroom ten minutes later, feeling distinctly uncomfortable between the legs, Dave is holding the basket in one hand and using his phone light to check the sand for anything stray that he missed. 

“God, I hate this shit,” you announce. Dave turns to you, and smiles as he pecks you on the mouth again. 

“I barely ever get this shit anymore, and when I do it has to be while we’re on a date. Instead of quietly in the night like a normal fucking person when they’re killing someone brutally from the inside,” you add. Dave laughs, and you wince as your statement answers itself. From inside of you. It has begun. 

Dave looks sympathetic. “I have painkillers if you need them,” he offers. 

You frown halfheartedly. “Too much. Thanks, but no cigar.”

Dave shrugs, and grabs your hand again. All of your attention focuses on his fingers. 

“Can you take baths right now? Some people don’t like to do that at times like this, but I could draw you a hot bath when I get you home.”

Dave is too good. 

"I mean," he adds, and you feel like you're gonna regret thinking so sweetly of him. "Some people with periods also find orgasms to help a lot, and hey I don't mind getting my hands dirty for your sake." Dave gives you this massive, exaggerated wink. Ugh.

“ _Way_ too much,” you tell him. He laughs out loud. By his wiggling eyebrows, you can tell that he was kidding. But only mostly kidding, probably. But nah. Literally no one is getting near your pants tonight.

“Thank you,” you say, softer. He blinks at you, and grips your palm more tightly. 

As you near the car, you open his door for him. He makes a swooning noise, and puts his weak fingers to his heart. “Oh Rhett! Oh Darling, Darling!”

You shut the door shut in his mirthful face.

Dave holds your hand again all the way to Walgreens. And then all the way to your apartment. Where he draws you a hot bath. And rubs the small of your back when you curl around him in your bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey so looks like im continuing this! haha, sorry it took so long to update! hope everyone is doing well, please expect more fun stuff and not-so-fun stuff!
> 
> hope you like this and again lemme know if there are any glaring problems or come talk to me on tumblr! ciao, love y'all!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the valentine's day episode and some other stuff too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check the tags! added some new ones there

Laying on the floor is seriously underrated, as a whole. 

Dave pretends to step on you, making exaggerated arm-pinwheeling motions. He laughs when you flick the back of his knee, and sinks to sitting beside you. 

The furniture has been pushed out to the sides of the room, and the stereo is playing. The music thrums through your arms and back, through even your knees, folded off the ground. Lying flat feels too _exposed._ The music is some kind of chillwave. It resonates in you.

It’s nice. 

You’re thinking too hard about it, but it’s nice. 

All at once, you sigh out a breath. Dave brushes a hand over your left thumb, drags a palm over your left knee and up to your sternum. The weight of his hand is nice there. 

Just this quiet moment. 

With the chill from the air and the music. The warm bubble Dave makes next to you cradles you in its grasp.

Dave’s hair is pink this time, under his beanie. Roxy just wanted to get him good, and she did. The pink isn’t bad on him anyway. 

The hand on your sternum swipes up a little, and down again. 

It hasn’t warmed up yet outside. It’s Valentine’s Day today, and it’s a Tuesday. Dave asked you what you wanted to do for it over text. You said you just wanted to spend time with him after your morning shift. Since all of his classes are in the morning, it worked out. You hadn’t seen him for two weeks before today.

 

* * *

 

You’ve stopped using all your small fleece blankets since you got with Dave. He hates the texture of them, and they catch in his fingernails. It’s okay, they were cheap and holey anyway. It’s easier to just leave out the blankets and wear the sweaters he likes anyway. When he finds a really good texture, and he’s calm, he can just zone out on everything else. 

It’s distracting to watch. 

He’s always messing with his or your shirt fabric, holding your hand, tearing leaves off of plants absentmindedly, tapping wooden tables with his nails. He loves to run his thumbs across smooth stones. You noticed that about a month ago, when you went with him to the mall and he stopped short in one of those stores that sell hookahs and bamboo plants. Dave immediately went in to look for fossils or something, and got distracted by the boxes full of rocks. He loves pressing his palms into sun-warmed concrete, too. 

Dave’s very tactile. Jade fucking Harley got him one of those spinning rings for Christmas last year, apparently. He's told you about it before. It’s made of some kind of really nice material that won’t stain his skin, and you know that he wears it during class or when he’s studying the most. For focus, he says. 

Things have just been working out for you two. 

With his classes and your work, you see him mainly after your early shifts or on weekends. 

It feels very natural to be with him. 

Yes, you still have things you disagree on along with the good. 

You hate apple juice, he would swim in it if he could. Once, you said that it “looks like piss and tastes like piss when it’s room temperature,” and Dave frowned for a long time before obviously deciding to take the high road and make a joke about you liking watersports. You put your cold toes on the backs of his thighs in retaliation. The shriek was worth it.

You like the way Dave smells when he washes with the Karma soap from LUSH, but you would never spend more than however much you absolutely need to spend on soap. He tried to convince you to buy some body wash one time, and you tossed more Irish Spring into the cart. You moisturize, that's good enough.

Dave likes to add things to what is already perfectly acceptable mac n’ cheese. It makes you consistently nauseous to eat more than half a bowl, even though the chopped broccoli and extra cheese are so delicious at first. 

That’s another point. Dave likes broccoli. You’re fine with it in strict moderation. The vegetable makes everything else taste like rancid broccoli. Including breath. Enough said. 

Dave likes to straighten up your apartment when he comes over, and you let him do as he pleases in that regard. Whatever makes him happy, as long as he puts everything where it should be. 

Dave laughs more quietly than you do. He gets you to laugh loudly a few times, though. Every time, you end up snorting so much that you _have_ to sound like a pig. He looks amazed by you anyway. Those times tend to end with less clothes and less decency. 

You have very different taste in movies, when it comes to classics. You don't like cheesecake at all, and Dave loves it. Dave cries like a baby at dog movies, and goes for regular runs and works out. For the most part, you avoid exercise like the concept itself murdered your family, and have an unhealthy enjoyment of punk rock. 

Both of you do your dishes promptly, though, after eating, even though you disagree on what direction spoons need to be positioned. You say handle-down, because it gives the forks more breathing room. Dave says handle-up, because then the spoons won’t get dirty again when you get them out to put them away.

 

* * *

 

Back in the present, Dave is staring at you. His eyes are half-lidded, and he’s very slowly leaning down to you. Why did you move the coffee table again? You were going to build a pillow fort or something, right? His lips stick so sweetly to yours. They taste like the chocolate you pressed into his mouth earlier. 

The drumming, constant heartbeat of the bassline makes every movement feel important. Your fingers tap a rhythm on his neck. 

Sometimes it feels like all you do with Dave is kiss.

 

* * *

 

Of course you talk. You talk about your friends, about your work and his school. You talk about DnD, even though both of your groups are on hiatus at the moment because of life things. He doesn’t like to talk about his home life as a kid, you found out early on. Every time you mention your family, he looks at you with a little bit of awe. His eyes sparkle strangely when you mention your father raising you and your brother by himself.

You don’t need to wonder why right now. Dave will tell you about it if you need to know, right? _If_ he wants you to know. It just makes you want to ask more.

Until then, the making out is a fine substitution. 

It’s easy to be quiet and not talk with Dave around. Not just because of the kissing. But because you seem to have a mutual understanding of “chill” between you. Not too much talking half the time, incessant blabber the other half of the time. 

Dave likes it when you open doors for him and hold his phone while he’s running to roundhouse kick Jade. He likes it when you let him pull out your chair, and pay for your coffee and dinners. John’s dad apparently gives him a monthly spending allowance despite all his tries for the opposite to happen. Apparently he just likes to take care of everyone, and that totally sounds like an excuse. But Dave looks so embarrassed when he says it like that’s not the whole truth, and also very incredibly happy so you don’t ask. TLDR; Dave doesn’t spend even half of that monthly allowance, and wants to spend it on you because you have a lot on your plate financially.

But hey, free dinner. 

Dave doesn’t push to take care of you, though, which you appreciate.

 

* * *

 

His fingers trail over your navel back on the living room floor. 

Sollux is out for the night, and he’s promised to stay out of the apartment just in case. John isn’t very tolerant of tomfoolery in his house when he has to work in the morning, so he kindly asked you to stay at your place tonight. 

But tonight… something about the peace of it draws you away from the desire to heat things up. 

He’s kissing you, sure. But it feels like honeyed pears, soft and sweet and slow. Like the kisses you usually share after sex. Like the exhausted kisses he laid upon you one Sunday morning, when he was trying to convince you not to leave the bed. Like sheets, freshly washed and dried, and the oldest, softest cotton t shirts. 

Being with Dave is so nice. 

His lips draw away, and your fingers return to yourself. “You wanna watch some theme movies?”

A sudden bark of laughter jolts from your throat, and you have to cough. Pushing yourself up onto your elbows, you cock an eyebrow at him. 

“What are ‘theme movies’? Also, weren’t we gonna make a blanket fort?” You ask.

Dave makes a face. “Of _course,_ the _blanket fort,_ because we’re five and I still have to ask my mommy permission to give my boyfriend a kiss on the cheek,” he groans. 

“Hey! Dealer’s choice, and that would be me, we are going to watch this shitty Valentine’s Day movie from a pillow fort or my name isn’t Karkat Vantas.”

“Yeah, you’re name’s Fuckwit McHandsydragon,” Dave coos at you. Coos at you. 

You let yourself frown at him. You don’t mean it. He knows you don’t mean it, too, if his next kiss is any indication. 

Dave stands, then, and moves to collect a couple of chairs from the small dining room you have. You never use the dining room, so you have no idea why you have a table for it. And matching chairs. It’s a real fuckin’ mystery.

His eyes carefully watch where your limbs are as he places chairs near enough to the sofa to make a kind of deep semicircle around it. It’s a hidden art, fort construction. He’s making the Clava Cairns of forts right now. The biggest pillars must be set up just right for it to work, probably. 

You’ve never made a blanket fort before, not even with Kankri when you were little. Dave told you earlier that he’s made one with John before, when he was ‘like, fourteen.’ He also said something about not getting a whole lot of chances for fun stuff like this when he was a tyke, at home. So he doesn’t have any not-John-assisted experience. 

It’s not like it’s rocket science, though. 

Dave takes the largest sheet from the stack, and binder-clips the edge of one corner onto the outermost leg of the chair to your forward-left. He’s got such a look of concentration on his face that you decide to stand, and give him a hand. 

You feel as heavy as stone as you rise to your feet. Dave looks like he’s going to open his mouth and tell you to sit again, and you hold up one hand. A quick shake of all your limbs, and you feel like helping is the maximum order of the day. Not really. But it’s nice getting up, running a hand across Dave’s back and grabbing another sheet. 

Three blankets, a ton of various clips, eight pillows, three couch cushions, a string of fairy lights, and a comforter later, and you have a decently sized blanket fort. There’s a wide opening facing your television, and the floor of it is soft. 

“Go sit down, I’ll get the movie playing,” you tell Dave, and he crawls inside to make himself comfortable. He laughs a little at the situation, and you can see flickering on the floor from him fucking around with the fairy lights. 

“Dude. We made a goddamn blanket fort,” he’s saying. You hear him crawl out, muttering about crouching too much, and rustle around in your stuff. 

While you’re turning on Sollux’s old PS2 on and getting the movie set up, Dave finds what he needs. By the movement of his footsteps, he also makes a pit stop in the kitchen. The sound of cups clicking together in his hand makes you glance back. He holds up two glasses of water for your inspection, and then the box with all the leftover chocolate strawberries in it. 

“Snacks,” he provides by way of explanation, and you raise an eyebrow before turning back to the screen. 

It’s ready, so you put the movie in and return to the blanket fort with the necessary remotes in hand. After turning off the music, of course. Thankfully Sollux has a wireless controller. What he doesn’t have is a remote for his sound system.

Dave’s leaning back against the pile of pillows and couch cushions, and holds out an arm. You gratefully sink under it. His hand tightens around your right shoulder. He hums a note into your ear.

You relax into his side, head on his collar, and press play on the movie menu.

 

* * *

 

About halfway through the movie, you’ve just finished the last of the chocolate strawberries. Dave keeps cringing at the lax scripting, and you keep laughing at his faces. 

A part of you suspects that he’s making the faces just to make you laugh.

You’re laying with your head on his thigh, now. About fifteen minutes into the movie, Dave got up to turn all the other lights off in the apartment. 

It’s so nice and quiet. The string of white lights in the fort are warm. The entire inside of the fort is warm. Like a cozy, pleasant little bubble.

“It’s funny that you ended up right back on the floor again,” Dave comments, breaking a bit of the silence. He uses the thumb of his right hand to swipe some chocolate from the strawberry box. 

The other hand cards through your hair. 

“What can I say,” you murmur, eyes at half-mast. “I just love being on my back.”

Dave laughs quietly, which turns into more full-bodied laughter soon enough. 

A few giggles of your own, and you’re letting your eyes close all the way. 

The silence is wanting something, though. At this point. 

For some reason, your whole attention is focused on Dave. 

You’re arrested from the movie by his nails in your scalp. 

Something falls out of your mouth almost without your permission. 

It half-slurs, half tumbles, half juts like cubes into a bowl from an ice tray. 

“Why didn’t you get to make blanket forts without John as a kid?” You ask. 

Dave freezes. 

You regret what you asked, until he slowly relaxes again. 

Very slowly. 

And then he sighs. 

From the television, a few lines of dialogue pass, and he begins scratching very carefully again, just on the nape of your neck. 

Without pausing the movie, Dave says, “I figured you would ask eventually, or it’d come up.”

Oh no. You told yourself you wouldn’t pry about this. You didn’t mean to ask about anything he didn’t want to share. Yeah, yeah, the health of relationships is better when you know things about each other like this, but you’ve barely been together for more than two months. That’s not really the opportune time for life-changing information. And you have no business asking. 

Right? 

You think you’re right. 

Your lack of long relationships is probably very telling.

“If this is something about having a hard time when you were little or something, you don’t have to—“ 

“Nah it’s okay,” he interrupts softly. “I’m glad it’s while we’re chilling out and not me just having a really bad day and getting triggered or something equally bad and embarrassing.” 

Triggered? 

“But since you brought it up, and I already got all tense n’ shit and let you know it meant something, it’d just make it worse to put it off. Besides, you deserve to know. I trust you a lot, y’know?” 

Despite the perceived severity of the conversation, that bit still makes you soften. Like putty, a grin spreads across your cheeks. 

“If you want to tell me, you can,” you make sure to tell him. And it’s true. “I wouldn’t be mad if you didn’t. It wouldn’t make the day bad or anything, for me, at least.” It’s all true. 

Dave chuckles. “I’m not mad at you for bringing it up, either,” he tells you in a too-sweet tone. You frown at him, and he delivers a weak noogie to the top of your head. 

“It’s not something I tell everyone,” he says gently, after a few more lines of dialogue from the film. 

You’re tempted to pause it, but the background noise is soothing. It fills the cracks of conversation in a pleasant way. 

“But you’re kinda important, so,” he draws off, shrugging. That bit makes you blush a little. You roll toward Dave, nose brushing his abdomen. The texture of his shirts is always so soft. 

He laughs, and you hear him scratch his own neck. 

“Where to begin, where to begin,” he mutters for a minute. A few more lines of dialogue pass. 

“So you remember how I was in the beginning of high school, right? Real scrappy, real scrawny?” He asks. 

You hum an affirmative, suddenly alert. 

“Well, ya see,” he says, and pauses. 

A few deliberate breaths filter in and out of his nose. His left hand moves to head rubbing duty, tangling in your wild locks, and his right palm rests on your waist. Twitches, rubs two inches of your shirt between the tips of antsy fingers. 

“My bro, who was actually my dad through some fucked up chain of events but still wanted to be considered my bro? idk. Not Dirk tho. Dirk is my brother. Bro and brother are different.”

“Did you just say idk out loud?” you ask, muffled in his shirt. 

Dave chuckles lightly, and some of the tension is broken. 

“Yeah, shut up man I’m tellin’ a story here,” he scolds, drifting carefully into what he probably things is a bad Brooklyn accent for half of it. He’s never even been further north than Indiana. 

You reach one of your arms back, and wind your fingers into his on your hip. Dave will wear a hole in your shirt if he continues in the way he’s going. His index and middle fingers creep a little into your sleeve before settling, curling pleasantly into your fist.

This way, he can rub his thumb over your palm if he wants. Just like he likes to.

“So anyway, Bro. He was fucked in the head,” Dave restarts. There’s no hesitation this time. It’s either like he had to tell himself this story a thousand times, or he had to recite it to someone else. “I don’t know what it was, if it was anything. But he wasn’t right. That’s not an excuse for what he did, though.” 

You can feel things taking a much darker turn.

You’re full of so much regret. For making him relive this, for making him tell you. 

Any of it. 

“Anyway, he’d leave me alone for days or weeks at a time, he didn’t feed me well, he’d take money I earned from whatever, tell me all the shit I liked was stupid and uncool, and he only gave me Christmas presents he thought were funny. That kind of thing. So something like blanket forts? Not cool. Yknow?”

You’re silent. Shocked. This was his caretaker. The movie has gotten paused somehow, and Dave is still slowly carding his fingers through your hair. He’s quiet for a long few minutes. 

It’s one thing to know this shit happens. But dave? This calm, collected, adorable mess? This too-caring and too-helpful asshole? He was… hurt? Like that?

“When I was about nine, he started instigating these daily sparring sessions. He’d beat me down and hurt me, sometimes real bad. Hence all the healed scars, and the buises if ya saw ‘em in high school. I fell for it cause he said it was training,” Dave reveals. “I didn’t question it. I was nine, man. And he was all I had as a reference. I barely went to school enough to pass on to further grades, I barely had any friends, and now I was training for the inevitable and honestly, improbable apocalypse.”

“That’s awful, Dave,” you whisper. His hand clenches tightly around yours. “That’s fucked up.” 

“I dunno, I think it was just straight up not-legit. It sounds awful to put it into words and shit. It sounds like… less severe to my own ears. However ridiculous that sounds. More cliché. More like a movie or something. But it was bad,” he agrees with you.

“Even when I figured out what was going on? How bogus it really was? I couldn’t get out. Losing was conditioned into me at that point, too. Like my body accepted that I would lose, every time. Even if my skills got better, he’d still flog me, cause I'd lose,” Dave mutters. “Another reason to never build blanket forts. Not stable enough to withstand an attack, however dramatic that sounds.”

When you glance up at him, his eyes are shut like iron welding. He’s gotten into the habit of not wearing his shades around you, when you’re alone. 

Hearing about his childhood, it suddenly makes sense. How he wears the shades. Not only as one of the ‘cool’ things. But as something to hide what’s going on. It’s heartbreaking. Is that how he seems so together all the time? The years of practice while chaos is happening in his head? 

Christ. 

You never want to let him go. Ever. 

Dave’s hand has stopped moving in your hair. Those eyes are still closed, and he’s very obviously measuring his breathing. 

“You made it to where you are, though. How did you get out?”

“John’s dad came to pick me up from school one day because john wanted help carrying donuts into class,” Dave says. “I was putting on my shirt and he saw bruises about the size of an adult man’s hand on my arm.”

“Oh.” Dave’s hand trembles, clenches. It restarts its inspection of your scalp. Gentle, soothing touches. 

“Yeah. It was quiet. He got me out. Went inside and talked with Bro, and Bro didn’t resist. At least I don’t think he did. But then I was out,” Dave finishes. His voice is full of relief at the very mention. His eyes are open now. 

He sighs. It brushes your forehead. “I didn’t want to leave town and school to go live with Rose and the rest of my half siblings, so there was some weird legal stuff. John's dad contacted and got me to meet them. I found out I have siblings.”

“Can I touch you?” You ask. When Dave nods, you roll back over onto your back. Like a vice, his right hand is still clutching your left. And with your right, you reach out to cup his cheek in your palm. Dave leans into it, and sighs. All the tension leaves his body. Just that simple touch. 

“The second half of junior year and the entirety of senior year were majorly hard,” he mumbles. You swipe your thumb across his cheekbone. Down his nose you trace a line. “John’s dad paid for me to see a really good therapist three times or twice a week, and he was so good to me. He and John gave me so much more than I deserved at the time. They encouraged me to go to school for a passion I hadn’t had for nearly a decade,” he says. 

Dave’s eyes are full of tears. 

“They’re such a good family,” he says. A hot droplet falls on your forehead. “I felt safe enough to come out to John’s dad, man. And he just looked up information and gave me a completely humiliating lecture later on safe and consensual sex with people of all genders, fuck. And _Christ_ he makes too much cake and can’t make fuckall of anything else but he sure tries.”

“They sound like a wonderful family for you,” you say. Dave wipes his eyes, and sniffles. 

“Man, I’m crying all over you on Valentine’s day,” he whines. 

You pull his head down a bit, and prop yourself up to meet him halfway. 

“It’s okay Dave,” you tell him, after a sweet kiss. “I still think you’re the bee’s knees.”

He laughs this time instead of sniffling. And then sniffles. And then laughs again. 

“You got any incredibly deep and sad life stories you wanna tell me? Even out the odds a bit?” Dave asks. 

It’s your turn to laugh. And kiss him again. 

“I think you deserve to have this moment all to yourself,” you say. 

Dave smiles. 

“Can we just go to bed? I don’t have class till later in the day tomorrow, but I’m like, super tired now,” he asks you. 

After a brief moment wherein you wonder if that’s really the best idea for him right now, you decide that it’s not your choice. 

“Yeah. Let’s at least turn off these fairy lights first? I don’t have work early. You can stay as long as you need,” you tell him. 

He makes a face and slaps your shoulder. 

“Enough of the providing crap,” he complains, but he’s smiling anyway. 

And you kiss him again before crawling out and starting to dismantle the fort. 

Dave chuckles wetly as he folds a blanket. “Would you believe that my therapist got me to learn guitar as part of my ‘journey to recovery’?” He asks. 

When you turn nearly fast enough for whiplash, Dave shoves your shoulder. 

“Seriously?!” you ask, eyes and smile wide. This is the best shit. Dave is _totally_ the kind of guy to try to be cool by learning guitar in high school. Well, he _was_. And he’s even taken the piss out of guitar players in front of you before. But this is something that helped him. Something he’s got a connection to. 

Dave looks embarrassed, and hugs a blanket to his chest. 

“Yeah. And it was mostly easy acoustic shit. Even a bit of slide guitar,” he says into the folds of fabric. 

The next thing he mutters is so soft that you think you might have misheard. 

“Mostly country songs.” 

You’re not sure if poking fun for that would be appropriate right now. Dave takes the opportunity for you, and flops back on the now open bed of pillows on the floor. He’s covering his face. 

“Country music was easy, and unfamiliar to me. Which was good, apparently? Because it was different than the stuff Bro played around the house. It was weirdly soothing. And he never made me play any of the misogynistic or patriotic or stupid shit,” he admits. “Mostly what he called ‘classic.’ I still remember an embarrassing amount of Tim McGraw. Even though he’s not classic, apparently.” 

“That’s adorable, Dave,” you say.

When he peeks at you between his fingers, you know you’ve got a shit-eating grin on your face. You wrangle it into something a little closer to what you hope is pride or affection. 

It must come across as what you want, because he smiles at you. 

“Aww. Thanks,” he snarks. 

You hold a hand out to him. He takes it, and you pull him to his feet. 

“You’re so white, you sweetheart,” you coo, and kiss him. 

“Thank y' kindly, darlin’,” he drawls at you, way too naturally to be affected. Tips his invisible hat. 

“Besides,” you say, and Dave perks up visibly. Well, attentively. “At least you don’t have an unabashed and completely serious love for some of Katy Perry’s music.”

“You what?”

“Teenage Dream was an amazing song, and I will stand by that idea until I die.”

Dave’s still laughing when he kisses you back, kitten-soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! here's another chapter of this! haha. had a day off and wrote a bunch more. i have another chap written but i need to write another one to put between them, and long story short it might skip around or be more cute shit but most likely a loose combo of both!
> 
> yeah, i did the whole "dave's past is fucked up" thing everyone does. i know, i always do that as a story element, im sorry :/ but his character and personality aren't the same without his hardships to me. it's mostly personal! 
> 
> anyhoo, I love yall and ill see you soon! <3 hope everyone is having a lovely evening


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the wedding episode

Even in the middle of everything else the past few months, Rose Lalonde has made it nearly impossible for you to forget that she’s having a wedding. 

A wedding that’s coming up, even. 

Despite your aggressive insistence to the opposite, Kanaya didn’t ask you to taste any cakes or judge any wedding dresses. Dave apparently hasn’t been asked to do so by Rose, either.

When asked, they simply replied that neither of you had good enough fashion sense to help with dress fitting. And then they laughed off the cake thing. 

But hey. If you don’t get to sample any disgusting and incredibly expensive cake, that’s their loss. 

It’s also kind of your loss. 

It’s very much your loss, actually. 

Apparently they’re forgoing the cake in favor of cupcakes. 

“We can still cut and shove cupcakes down each other’s throats, dear, never fear,” Kanaya had told you when you mildly protested the idea. 

You know it’s because she secretly thinks cupcakes are massively superior to full cakes. Rose is just rolling with it. 

Fashionista in the streets, tiny cupcake lover in the sheets. 

Without any and all isinuations.

Long story short, Jade Harley, Terezi, and Feferi went with them for their combination wedding-gown-trying-on-day, and you and Dave went to get tux fittings. Black tuxes, to disappear next to two sparkling white dresses. 

Oh, sorry, it hasn’t been mentioned yet? 

You and Dave are both best men in this wedding. 

Despite Kanaya and Rose insisting otherwise, you’re convinced it’s because Kanaya and Dave are tall, and you and Rose are short. With the two of you up on the stage next to the beautiful ladies, the pictures will not only look elegant, but also balanced in height. You're not even that incredibly close to Kanaya.

Another long and complicated story short, it’s soon to be the ides of March, tonight is the night of the wedding rehearsal, and Dave is making everyone exasperated. 

Rose, who has been gaily (haha) putting up with all of his shenanigans so far, is teeming on her last nerve. 

In the past few weeks getting closer and closer to the wedding, Kanaya has been confiding in you. It’s mostly about how difficult it is to keep Rose’s stress levels down. Rose needs it to be perfect. It’s something she’s a little anal-retentive about, this wedding. And she will have everything in its place. 

But there are a few conversational hiccups. 

That’s where Dave comes in. 

Trying to be funny, as usual. 

Honestly, it is pretty funny. Funny enough to have you coughing over a laugh occasionally and watching Rose’s face go from pale to puce. 

“But since Karkat and I can't both be best men,” he’s insisting, while you’re gathering in the hallway before the rehearsal in the chapel, “One of us has to be the maid of honor. And obviously I’m more suited.” 

Kanaya looks almost green, and sighs shakily. 

“I mean, with my nubile form and full cheeks, I’m the prime candidate,” he adds, wistfully waving one hand around. 

Rose actually looks shockingly calm for all her color change, and you’re too busy trying not to laugh at the mental image of Dave in a lavender ballgown to corral him.

“No, Dave,” Rose says. Her voice is like a bowstring, even as the officiator walks up. 

“But Rose, the cliché is that it’s the maid of honor walking off with the best man at the end of the night,” Dave insists, making placating gestures with his hands. He looks fit to bursting with his ‘excellent’ jokes. 

He lost track of trying to keep Rose calm about this whole affair… three weeks ago. And he went straight to making jokes. 

God help him.

He winks at you. 

“Besides, Rose, a ballgown would look stunning next to your wedding dress.” 

Kanaya looks mildly horrified, at the thought of Dave in a ballgown. You’re sure it’s about his posture and the knowledge that he most likely wouldn’t bother getting one that even fit him properly. 

You find your head in your hands, and you being to breathe slowly and carefully so that you don’t add to the fray of words. 

Dave makes a strangled noise, and your chin shoots up. 

When you get to looking at him again, Rose has her fist in his collar. White-knuckled, she’s yanked him down to her level. 

Her voice is flat, and Dave has some of the most legitimate fear you’ve ever seen when they meet eyes. 

He regrets it so much that you almost snicker into your closed palm. 

“You will _not._ Be making a spectacle of my wedding,” Rose says, calm as can be. Her skin has returned to its normal hue, and her eyes are piercing as the darkest part of the ocean. 

Dave nods, eyes wide. 

“Is that _CLEAR,_ ” she adds, with a smile. 

“Yes ma’am,” Dave says, and Rose lets him go with a kiss on the cheek. 

As Rose moves to talk with the officiator and Kanaya, you move to your boyfriend. He’s rubbing his hand over his cheek and shaking his head. 

“Jeez. What a grip,” he mutters, and you rise up onto your toes to kiss his nose. “Terrifying,” he adds. 

With a chuckle, you draw back. “She’s very serious about making this event as flawless as she can,” you remind him. With a flash of a grin, Dave nods. 

“Yeah, but will the best man still sweep me off my feet and make sweet nasty to me for a day straight after the wedding if I’m his titular equal?” He asks, almost innocently. 

A quick look around shows you that the officiator is still busy, as are the two women to be wed. You let your face dip into a grin. “I was already planning on it,” you tell him. Dave’s face fills with a hot blush from hairline to neck. 

“What?” You ask him, flippant. “You look halfway decent in a tailored suit.” 

Just as you’re raising one eyebrow at him in a completely uncharacteristic display that you know will make him laugh, a voice rings out across the building foyer. 

“Well look what the cat dragged in!”

Dave perks up, and his head jerks toward the source of the news. 

“I thought the house was supposed to fall on the wicked witch’s sister, but I guess it fell on you instead judging by your face!” He shouts back, and you swivel to look at the newcomers. On your way around, you catch Rose and Kanaya’s slightly irritated expressions. 

But on Rose’s face, it’s fond irritation, this time. 

The first voice soon makes its owner known, as a bustle of bags and material flies past you and Rose is enveloped in a hug. 

The other person that walked in is someone you only barely recognize, and that’s due to his resemblance to Dave. He’s carrying two drink-carriers with Starbucks in them. 

Ah, yes. Checking your phone, you find that they’re fifteen minutes late.

Striders are so... 

“Hey, if it isn’t the murder of crows here for the only family reunion we losers ever get,” the unnamed man says. But you know this is Dirk. He’s even wearing sunglasses like his brother. Tools, the lot of them. 

“Christ, Dirk,” Dave laughs, and waits for his brother to put the coffee down before wrapping him in a hug. 

The bustle of fabric and bags reaches around them, holding out a hand for you to shake. 

“Hey! I’m Roxy. Lovely to meet you!” She says. And ah. That’s the first voice, the one that was insulting Dave. Her face is wide and open and full of kindness. Already you can tell that she’s going to be bubbly almost all the time. That’s not a problem, though. 

“Karkat Vantas,” you say back to her, and she whips out a grin for you before going back to pestering Rose.

“I got flat whites for everyone. Didn’t want to take a super long order,” Dirk is saying as Dave unpeels from him. 

In a second, he’s bending down to hand out coffee. He got enough for the six of you, and then one for the officiator, who accepts it with a small bow and a grin. 

You get yours last, and you’re able to enjoy the warmth of it in your hand for about three seconds before Dirk is zeroing in on you with all the speed and grace of a heat-seeking missile the size of a Boeing. 

When he starts talking to you, you look him over. You get the feeling he’s doing the same. 

He’s halfway between Dave and Roxy’s heights, which makes him about half a foot taller than you. Muscular, like he spends all his extra time working out, and he could pile drive you and make it look like an accident. 

And yet. You can tell. Something in his rehearsed-sounding manner of speaking and overt monotone lets you know that he’s nothing to be intimidated by. 

“So. I hear you’re dating my baby brother and you guys are pretty deep in it,” he starts, and Dave’s palm on his own forehead makes a slap to be heard around the world. 

“Aw, come on, man, don’t,” Dave tries, only to be thwarted by Dirk’s hand pushing his brother’s head down and making him splutter. 

“It’s my job as his older sibling to make sure that he’s gonna make an honest man outta you,” Dirk replies, crossing his arms. Oh good. Classic. The shovel speech.

“I’m sure your approval is making someone in the world feel very content,” you tell him, crossing your own arms and putting all your weight on one leg before you realize what you’ve done. The snark comes across a little icy and a lot snappy, and Dirk’s mouth pulls up from dead space into half of a smart grin. 

He laughs, once, weirdly, and holds out a hand. 

“Dirk Strider, robotics engineer for Skaiatech,” he tells you. 

He’s wearing fingerless gloves. 

All of your possible intimidation disappears. Fingerless gloves. Every single Strider is a total lame-o. You’re positive. 

“And a professional deadlifter, apparently,” you choose to say instead of introducing yourself. 

“Hey, this overcompensation doesn’t come free, shortstack,” he tells you.

“I’ll notify the presses.” 

“What do you do, Karkat Vantas? Heard you introducing yourself to Rox.” 

“Sales associate,” you answer him.

He hums. “How much do you make?” he asks. 

“None of your fucking business,” you reply.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.

“Maroon,” you reply.

“Favorite animal?” he asks. 

“Fiddler Crab,” you reply.

“Does Dave prefer the D raw or well done?” he asks. 

“Raw as my steak at dinner,” you reply. 

“There we go,” he laughs, and claps Dave on the back. 

“Oh my _god_ , Karkat,” Dave chokes, and you manage to smirk at him. 

“I like this guy,” Dirk laughs some more. “He’ll fit right in.”

 

* * *

 

Three days later.

Dave’s got his feet in your lap, and he’s shoving a huge, spangly cupcake into his mouth. His eyes are glued to Rose and Kanaya. 

By Rose’s request, his shades are off. He’s got them in his jacket pocket, for the security. 

The absence of the shades is obviously making him uncomfortable on a subsonic level. It’s the only reason you’re letting him keep his feet on your pressed pants while you eat. 

There were entirely too many photos to be taken. 

Besides the first couple of more required dances, he’s been content with staying at the table. For the first turn around the room between the brides, they played an Ella Fitzgerald song. Dave hummed the words into your ear after you were called up to join the new couple on the dance floor. His voice was tired and croaky, but he was pretty good even though you know his eyes were closed. 

Dirk and Roxy were the other two on Rose’s side, and Kanaya was flanked by her aunt Porrim, and Terezi. Terezi, who came back into town from her big lawyer internship at her mother’s firm. You’re a little jealous. 

Terezi tried to get the both of you to dance, and was met with reluctant acceptance. You hadn’t expected her to get the two of you to dance with her at once. 

But then, Terezi’s full of surprises. 

And in that, she’s full of no surprises at all. 

Currently she’s hanging off of Roxy, and they’re both holding flutes of lavender champagne. Terezi is pointing at something across the room, and they burst into giggles. Dirk, sitting nearby, looks mildly uncomfortable. You don’t think you want to know. Especially since Terezi is legally blind. Like. How is she even pointing at something.

Roxy’s turned out to be a good conversationalist, very social, very susceptible to spoiling her siblings, and very kind. In the past few days she has insisted on buying Dave some new shoes, debugged your laptop for whatever reason, and terrified you with how she drives her truck.

You met their “Mom” the previous day. She’d had a conference and couldn’t make it to the rehearsal, but she was determined to make the wedding. There were lots of hugs that you weren’t included in, and then a few that you were. Dave’s greeting with her was a little more stuttered. She stared for a good minute or so before snapping out of it and catching him in her arms. 

Later, Dave explained that he didn’t see much of her until she invited him for the Lalonde family Christmas the year he met his siblings. Apparently his family tree goes as follows: The Asshole, Bro, is the father of Dave and Dirk. Dirk is the son of Mom and Bro, but Dave is not. Roxy and Rose are Mom’s biological children? Right? And then there are a lot of cats. The idea that anyone would copulate with that festering pile of waste is beyond you, but apparently Mom(she honestly won’t tell you her name) used to be very into irresponsible things like lots of alcohol and pills to quell her loneliness. 

More than you ever needed to know about her, but oh well. Dave was raised by a Feculent Dicksore, the rest were raised by her, Dave was transferred to Ye Olde Egbert House at the crispy age of… seventeen? Sixteen? And didn’t meet them until after that. So Roxy and Rose are probably his half siblings, but relations always confuse you. 

And for half siblings, Rose and Dave look startlingly alike.

The cupcake on your plate is large, but not too big. When you cut into it, a jam filling spills out, and the green icing on top of the pale purple cake splits neatly. It’s a quality little cake. Soft, moist, and when you put it in your mouth, it’s got this nice earthy jasmine tea flavor. 

The jam’s taste escapes you, but it reminds you of the couple all the same. 

Dave’s foot nudges your thigh. 

“What?” you ask, without looking up. 

His foot nudges again. 

You look up, and he’s staring at you. 

It’s odd seeing Dave without his sunglasses in a public place.

But he’s got one eyebrow raised, and one eye closed. 

And there’s still frosting on his upper lip. 

Rolling your eyes, you swipe it off with a thumb. 

“What?” you repeat. “Use your words. No, I’m not doing you any favors in the bathroom at your sister’s wedding.”

Dave laughs for a bit, and when your eyes finish their trip around, he’s looking a bit more serious. 

“I was gonna ask what you thought of my siblings. And... Mom,” he says, messing with the silver cupcake wrapper in his hand. You trace a line up and down his shin on your lap with your left hand, while your right is still getting a small bit of pastry into your mouth. 

“I like them,” you answer honestly. “They’re very… unique. But I can tell you all love each other. And they’re easy enough to get along with.”

For whatever reason, Dave’s face creases with relief at the notion that you like his family. Even if his family were strangers for most of his life. It makes something in you wrench, and you take a brief second to lean over and press a chaste kiss to his cheek. Still tastes like sugar. 

He got the grape frosting, it seems like. 

“Have you heard back from that teaching job yet?” you shoot out, deftly changing the subject. 

It’s Dave’s turn to be exasperated, and he leans away almost over the back of his chair with his hands pressed to his eyes. 

“You ask me about this so _much_ , you just asked me this morning,” he complains. 

“Yeah, because I want to make sure they’re choosing the best candidate for success here,” you say through the last mouthful of cupcake. “The interview was three days ago, you think you’d have heard back by now.”

You’re very well aware of the fact that these things don’t happen that quickly. And with the school year coming to an end, the job wouldn’t start until the fall anyway. But every time you bring up the interview, Dave gets excited about it. Like, actually excited. 

His eyes light up and he talks about it. It would be a job, an honest teaching job that would help him get experience in his field. It would be one of the first things he’s gotten all on his own, and that kind of solid self-validation glimmers like hope on his face. 

It makes you want to go for that manager position you’ve been thinking of. 

“Yeah, but even you know that it’s not gonna happen that fast,” Dave says, shooting you a fond grin. 

“And you haven’t told anyone else about it yet,” you remind him. 

With that, he gives you a petulant frown. 

“I want it to be certain,” he says. “I want to know I got it. Before I celebrate.”

You understand. Completely. 

Dave was excited to tell you. 

He reveals a lot of himself to you. It’s interesting. 

It’s been… three months? A little more than that. 

Wow.

You hadn’t even noticed; it’s been three months already? It had felt so natural, so easy to incorporate him into your life. Once he was there for the first few weeks, it was like all of your decisions were made around him. It was so unnoticeable. And yet now? Leaving him might… crack you. Into so many inconsequential pieces.

That doesn’t seem healthy. 

But his eyes are so light and fond to yours. 

And the set of his brow can calm you down from your workday tension. 

The thought has crossed your mind a couple of times that it would be easier to just have him live with you, so that you could see him every day. 

It’s too soon for that, though, way too soon. There needs to be more time. 

By whatever standard that exists, it hasn’t been long enough for that. It doesn’t feel quite… right. Yet. 

“What’s up?” Dave is asking you. 

Blinking out of your thoughts, you see him tilting his head at you. Confused. 

It makes you smile. He’s like a puppy. Jesus Christ.

“Nothing,” you tell him. He looks about ready to ask. He’s even opening his mouth, sucking in a breath, when a cry comes from across the dance floor. 

“Cha cha slide!!!” Roxy and Terezi shout in unison, arms thrown in the air. Rose’s mother is leaning over the DJ table, talking to whoever is playing the music. A familiar beat starts. 

Rose and Kanaya look tired, but they’re smiling.

They have to forcibly pull you both to the dance floor. 

Dirk films the whole thing for blackmail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeesh i write about weddings so much. oh no... ya caught me... i love weddings. 
> 
> hahahahaha i hope y'all enjoyed the chapter and are having a wonderful evening!


	6. Chapter 6

“So John walks in, covered from head to toe in baby oil.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, he was covered in baby oil.”

“How in the blistering hot hell did you know it was baby oil of all things?”

Dave looks a little perplexed when you peek at him past your arm. His hands pause on your left foot, and his brow flattens as he makes a negative face. When he tilts his chin up to you, you snort. He looks so… perturbed.

“Baby oil has this… distinct baby smell,” he says. You snort again.

“If you insist,” you reply, and he laughs under his breath.

It goes quiet for a bit, like he’s lost track of the story and he’s trying to remember where he was.

An itch on your elbow makes you unfold your arms from over your face to scratch it.

The ceiling fan is turning gently on the ceiling.

A slight whirring sound follows it. Gently creaking, the chain on the side tapping ever so often on the bowl of the night fixture.

Dave’s thumbs go back to running up the underside of your foot. Firm presses on the tendon under the ball of your sole make you groan softly. It hurts, but it’s a really good hurt. Fucking… nice. Fucking nice. You do not deserve Dave at all.

He spreads his thumbs out from the center, spreading your toes and stretching out all the muscles. It’s a pained groan this time that leaves your mouth. Dave stops moving his hands abruptly, and you nudge your toes into his stomach to signal him to keep going. His abdomen is tense and taut against your heel, easily because of your pained expression.

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Feels better later. Cramped shoes, cramped toes,” you mutter with a wince.

Your hands unclench from the couch cushion, and Dave heaves a breath. Opening your eyes, you see his face gradually relax from what looks like good, solid horror. He unwinds as you watch, staring at your feet, running a thumb around the knob of your ankle.

“You okay?” you ask, softly.

Dave looks up at you, smiles, and nods. It’s happened before, when he dropped a chair leg on your foot, or he accidentally shoved you too hard while playing around. Did he have a bad day today? Maybe he’s still nervous about the job he’s waiting on a response for. He seemed fine earlier. He’ll be okay after a few minutes, like usual. 

And if he’s not, you’ll take care of him.

But he seems okay.

He also seemed fine a week ago, when his brother and sister left to go back to Roxy’s ranch in Missouri. Turns out that’s why Dirk is so ripped. He’s constantly working, shoeing horses and cleaning stalls. His working hands, physique, the fact that he’s on T… it all adds up to make him extremely masculine. Dudebro masculine. Cowboy with a giant belt buckle masculine. Well, okay. _Appear_ as masculine as all those stereotypes wished they actually were.

It also helps that apparently he’s had top surgery.

He told you, apropos of almost nothing. And asked when you’d had it done. Man, your binders must be fucking good if Dirk didn’t notice you were still wearing one.

You’re not a very self-conscious person, you’re not in a huge world of need to be more stereotypically masculine as a human being, but it made you think.

And you’ve been thinking for a week and a half, now.

What if they… just weren’t there? You wouldn’t have to bind anymore, you might feel… better, maybe even take your shirt off for sex. Maybe. Big maybe. It’s still more comfortable having a layer of fabric between you and the air, but… huh. It’s like… they’re just useless where they’re at. Completely. And you’d be much less at risk for breast cancer. It’s not like you’re planning on employing them, or anything. 

Huh.

Yes, there’s always allure in further validation. There always has been. Even though you’ve been living this way for so long. Since you got them. Your dad bought you your first binder when you were twelve. It was the wrong shade of flesh tone, and he paid out the ass for it. But he smiled when you smiled, putting it on.

The surgery…

It’s not something you’ve saved anything up for yet. It’s not even a certain plan. But…

Huh.

Better now than never.

Dave’s gone back to rubbing one of your feet, absently staring at the television and your Good Eats marathon.

“Hey Dave,” you start, flexing your free toes on his thigh to ensure that you grab his attention.

He looks up at you, and raises a brow in question.

“I’m thinking about top surgery,” you tell him, and wait.

There’s a sudden burst of completely unreasonable fear.

Eighteen different thoughts and feelings run through your head like they’re racing cars on the autobahn. An absurd fear of rejection, anticipation, regret, the idea that he might be happy about it, the idea that he might be too happy about it, what if he likes the way you _are_ and what if he likes the way you are better with a flat chest, what if he’s happy you’ll finally be closer to male, what if –

“Okay, that’s cool,” Dave mutters.

He looks back at the television.

Like he’s discussing the _weather._

You’re completely still.

A nameless agitation builds like a steadily increasing about of angry bees right under your sternum. Blank, carefully blank.

Dave takes your other foot, deeming the first one done.

“That’s it?” you ask, a little harsh on the end.

The words cut like dulled glass on your lips, and you feel your lips pull back in an entirely unreasonable snarl.

Why do you suddenly feel so angry?

You were expecting more, so much more. So much more of _something_ , anything, _anything_ else except what he gave you. It didn’t even cross your mind that he wouldn’t care, and that makes you _somehow_ angrier. The anger spits like hot fire from your tongue even as you breathe, even as you remain silent besides those two words.

You want him to care, even as you don’t. Because the question here is why he doesn’t care.

There are no reasonable solutions or answers to that question filtering into your brain.

Dave looks over at you again. His face is also blank. 

Shuttered, careful. Like he knows what he said. But you can’t tell if he regrets it, or literally fucking anything else.

It makes you angrier.

Dave’s face is never blank for you, he always shows you what he’s feeling.

“Yeah?” He asks, completely blasé. Again.

The corner of his mouth is pulling up into a bare smirk, quavering on the edge, like he’s about to laugh, like he’s just… kidding. About this, about something.

There’s a sputtering flame coming to life in your heart, and you almost stand.

But you don’t. 

You make an attempt to shove it down and control your anger.

Turning your head and shoulders from him, focusing on the wall, the television, anything.

It fails, ultimately.

“Karkat,” he starts, and you whip around at him without thinking.

“What?!” you shout.

Dave visibly flinches. 

One of his hands is halfway to guarding his face. You wilt like the stem of a plant that’s been left in a vase for far too long. All the strength and turgor just leave you.

Of course. 

You need to be careful with Dave. Somehow, you’ve managed to forget. After months of being around him, you’ve managed to forget.

He takes a second to rewind, and you wrestle a calm into your face. You breathe, settle back on the couch.

You don’t want to hurt him, right?

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, looking down at your hands.

There’s a broad silence.

The ceiling fan whirs, clicks.

Dave makes some kind of soft, aborted, frustrated noise. 

When you glance up at him, he’s smearing a big hand down the front of his face.

The set of his shoulders is slumped, forced in how relaxed it’s trying to be. His brow works gently up and down, wrestling the rest of his face into submission.

“This is a big deal.” He says. Like he’s coming to some kind of resigned revelation. Something flares in your chest again, and you coldly push it down. “Dirk’s been through this already, so I guess… I just brushed it off.”

And. Oh.

“And then I just kind of… didn’t think.”

Right.

You just… dramatically overreacted. And he’s going to compensate for you. Again.

Guilt spasms into your chest.

Dave sighs. There’s almost no trace of his earlier fear. Even though it only dissipated seconds before. Whatever coping mechanisms he knows, they’re excellent. When you pay attention to something other than yourself and your discussion, you feel his hands gently tracing the hem of your pants and the skin beneath. Slowly. Methodically. Like a habit you haven’t seen before. Like a process he’s used to following.

“He’s the kind of asshole that doesn’t like to talk about it after he mentions something important,” Dave explains tiredly. “It was... bad to just employ it with you.”

You clench your hands in the front of your shirt. A second, another second, and a third pass.

The anger almost completely evaporated with his flinch, leaving you feeling sore and raw.

“I didn’t need to snap at you,” you mutter. “I scared you.” The hands on your ankles squeeze.

“Yeah, well, we both made mistakes. You just reacted reasonably to what I said. My issues aren’t the issue right now. This is important to you. What do ya wanna talk about?” Dave says, slow and maybe just a little hesitant past the sureness. The raw place in you suffuses with a weak warmth, guilt, and affection. He’s too good.

You’ll have a talk with him later about the fear. But for now, you’ll do what he wants, and not flagellate all over him wanting to take care of you.

“I just…” you hesitate, and he squeezes your ankles again. The pressure is good. His hands are good. “I haven’t saved up anything. But Dirk got me… thinking.”

“Did he say something?” Dave asks.

“He assumed I’d had it already,” you confess, and Dave snorts.

“And also,” you start again.. “Part of me… wants some kind of approval. Like, validation about the decision. And then you were being so… whatever about it.”

Glancing up, you see that Dave’s face is full of something like regret and a four letter word you don’t want to think about yet. It aches at the ball of your throat, and scratches at your eyes.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dave tells you. “Even if we either reacted too strongly, or not enough.” The placating continues. Admitting it out loud. 

Almost instantly, you look away. “Don’t apologize.”

“I dunno, that’s kinda what healthy couples do,” Dave says. Taunting you playfully to object. His lips are curved into a gentle, tired moue. You can hear it. 

The goading works, and you look back at him, exasperated sigh prepared and already hissing out.

You were right about his smile.

“Well,” Dave says, when you stay quiet. “I certainly understand your need for validation. And I approve of anything you want to do. Do you want this for you, and only you?”

The answer comes without a doubt. “Yes.”

Dave’s nose scrunches when his eyes crease, and his lips quirk. “Well then,” he says to you. And then he looks down, to where your chest is just barely curving through your loose tee.

“You guys have had a good long run. But you’re freeloading, and not paying rent.”

You can’t help it. You giggle. “Oh my God, Dave.”

“And frankly, I won’t miss you.”

Dave holds your leg hostage so that you can’t shove him away with your foot.

“Dave.”

“Cause your landlord is really hot, and nice, and he says you gotta go,” Dave patronizes your chest.

You’re laughing, now. Dave is fondly regarding your breasts, holding one hand gently under the left and giving it a sympathetic stare.

“I know, you have nowhere else to go. But rules is rules, darlin’, and hey, you’re the one that signed the lease.”

You slap his hand away. Dave grins at you.

“Bye, fuckoes,” he says. And leans over you to give you a soft peck on the cheek.

It’s blissful silence that curves into your ear this time, as lips smack noisiliy a few times, coming together and parting like familiar waves once more. Better. Solid.

“But seriously,” Dave makes sure to add, as he draws back to his half of the couch. “This should only be for you. I can’t make your decisions for you. I’ll approve of anything you want to do, as long as you know that it’s for yourself. My feelings for you aren’t going to change. They never have.”

You’re a pile of mush disguised as a human being.

Your lizard brain is relaxing, content, and your hands are now flopped gently over your stomach.

Dave goes silent for a bit, while you just kind of stare at him in adoration.

“You wanna go swimming?” he asks.

You don’t tense, but the dramatic change of subject makes you oddly feel like you must be having a stroke.

“Excuse me?” you ask right back.

“John’s dad has a pool,” he offers, by way of explanation. “I’m trying for a distraction, here. Give me some credit.”

“It’s March,” you weakly try to keep up.

“Your point being?”

“It’s cold,” you try.

“The pool is heated,” he returns. His fingers have gone back to kneading your foot, working you gently back into the land of the socially acceptable.

“You don’t have to work tomorrow and it’s like… isn’t swimming good for sore muscles or something?” he tries again.

“I don’t even have swimming trunks.” It’s only a half lie. You do have some. At your father’s house.

“I have some extras. They have a tie at the top for your tiny butt, too,” he presses.

After some thought, you add, “John’s dad will be there, won’t he?”

You don’t swim in your binders, because you work hard to maintain their integrity and longevity. And you’re not very dysphoric, but you don’t want someone you’re not familiar with to see your wet fucking shirt snowcapping your nipples like the peak of Mount Fuji. You never bought a sport top or anything for swimming.

Because you never go swimming.

Well, your dad got you one at the same time he got you your first few binders. But that was a long time ago. It’s not even a question of whether that old thing would still fit.

Dave’s head is tilted like a puppy, and he looks oddly eager in dramatic difference to earlier.

Maybe… a sports bra. Yeah. Your sports bra would work for swimming. It keeps everything generally under lock and key. Even if it was just Dave there. Less risk of neighbors seeing you, right? Normally you might not care as much, but the conversation has left you feeling a little… gross. About yourself. Not because of Dave, but… well, okay. You’re not gonna explain it to your own internal dialogue.

Maybe it’s because you haven’t been swimming in such a long time. Do you even remember how to swim anymore?

“Nah, Dad won’t be there. He’s out for the weekend, and I said I was free to go and relax in the pool or hot tub anytime, bring some friends over and have some ‘adult beverages’.”

You’re distracted almost completely from your thoughts, and you laugh.

“Did he really use that terminology?” You ask, trying not to get any further into your hilarity.

Dave laughs too, though, and it bubbles like champagne. “Yeah, man.”

“Well…” you sigh. “Okay then.”

Dave’s face lights up like the Fourth of July.

He leaps to his feet, and nearly sprints to his bedroom.

“We can stop at your apartment if you need anything, he has the suits and towels at the house!”

-

-

* * *

“Dave.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s fifty degrees.”

You’re staring at the pool. To be fair, the water was warm to your toes when you dipped them in. But when you took them out, they nearly fucking froze on contact with the air.

Maybe you’re being a little dramatic.

 

\---

 

The house, walking through, was dark and quiet despite it only being eight in the evening. The sun’s gone down already.

You couldn’t see the inside of it much, but you could see that it had two stories, a generous kitchen, and more than decent furniture. It was pleasant, comfortable, and large by your standards.

While Dave went upstairs to drop off his glasses and grab towels, you examined some dimly lit family photos on the mantle.

One in particular caught your eye. A family portrait with Dave, John, and an older man that looked so very much like John they could have been the same person at different ages. That must be John’s father.

There was a photo of an old woman in a sari standing with the same man, and individual pictures of both Dave and John at various ages. Only the oldest pictures of Dave looked very relaxed. It pulled on your heart.

Dave came back down and shoved a pair of trunks at you, and directed you toward a bathroom.

 

\---

 

Back at the pool, the night time hasn’t caught up with the sun yet. The nights are still long this time of year.

A shove comes at your back.

You get one enraged look around at Dave’s chortling face before you splash into the water.

When you rise to the surface, spluttering, he’s jumping in after you.

The water is pleasantly warm, but… Come on. Dave.

The wave splashes you in the face as you come to standing in the shallow end of the pool. You immediately splash him back when he gets his head back out of the water.

It turns into an all out extravaganza of splashing. You’re still in the shallowest end, half shivering as your be-shirted torso sticks out of the water, while Dave hangs out around the six foot marker, bouncing on his toes every so often to stay comfortably above the ripples.

You let yourself sink, to avoid a firm onslaught. 

Underneath the water, it’s quiet but for the muted splashing, and the whirring of the pool’s system running. Dave’s skin looks even paler under the water, washed out white and stuttered with freckles and slightly-raised, healed over slash marks. 

When you resurface, he reprimands you about that being against the rules, and that he’s not swimming around because it’s not fair to you. 

He gets a jet of water to the face from your mouth.

You’re laughing out loud, and Dave is laughing too. The crescent of his lips is more bright than the moon. God, you love it when Dave smiles. While you’re distracted he manages to catch you in the eyes with a coursing splash, and you swing an arm out in the water to get him back.

All the leftover tension from earlier that’s been clinging to your consciousness like splinters, just… dissolves. Like magic. Like cotton candy.

You lurch closer to Dave, trying to make a large burst with everything you can do. Without getting out of your depth, that is. He dodges, and dives under. A screech leaves your lips as he drags you under the water by your leg. 

Under the water again, he pushes nimble fingers up your stomach, then turns quickly away.

When you rise, spluttering, once again, he’s there with a peck for your cheek. Spicy heat fills your face. The skin where his lips was, tingles, and before you can chase his mouth, Dave is diving again.

A large hand, typically, catches one of your ankles. Instead of dunking you again, he stands again, still holding it. 

Even as you’re laughing and struggling you manage to kick some more water up at his face. Dave’s thumb presses into the bottom of your foot in a clear mockery of how he was massaging them earlier.

His eyes glimmer with something.

And like a flash, you realize.

You’re screwed.

He’s either going to tickle you to death, pull you under again, or get close enough for some interesting pool activities you’ve never been dumb enough to try.

And by the look in his eyes, he’s shooting for the last one.

Dave pulls you in by the captured limb, simultaneously moving closer to you. His body is sinuous, backlit by the underwater pool light, and hot to the touch.

Your leg gets yanked to the side, allowing plenty of time for you to reject the advances or pull away, like always.

He grabs your arm to draw you into a kiss.

It’s cold, and wet, the kiss. Still gentle, though, even as he tries to recover breath from the splashing.

The depth of the water forces you to sling a death grip around his shoulders to keep to where he’s at. You can’t touch the bottom.

Almost an afterthought, Dave grabs onto your thighs and hooks your knees around his waist.

“Fuck you for being tall,” you drawl against his mouth.

Dave tastes like chlorine, heat, and a bit of chill. His throat is thrumming with pulse under your fingertips, and his hair drips on your nose and forehead. A heady and clean scent pulls off his skin when you inhale for another kiss.

He giggles a bit, hitches you higher on his waist. Dave is remarkably good at keeping balance. You’re also taller now. Legs wrapped around lower chest is less comfortable, but you’re working with it. Working with it so well that you’re able to suck his tongue into your mouth, and he grunts his appreciation.

Dave’s smile on your lips is practically a flavor as his hands creep inches up under the hem of your borrowed swimwear.

It maybe occurs to you to pull away, and level him with a suspicious look.

Dave’s eyes are gently half-lidded, and his most recent hair color (courtesy of Roxy, a neon-yellow tone that quickly faded to a more pissy yellow on the roots) is bleeding a drip or five onto his neck. He stopped wearing his beanie a couple of weeks ago, when it got a little too warm. You’d convinced him. Sweaty grease isn’t a good look.

“So this was your idea all along,” you scold.

Dave actually has the gall to look a little embarrassed. You can feel a tirade of the Target in January variety popping up, so you mold your mouth onto his for twenty seconds instead.

“Your smile is just so cute, okay?” He gasps, when you’ve pulled back, and God.

He’s so sweet.

Holy buckets.

He grasps your thighs outside the shorts, your hands clench wavering fingers into his wet hair, and he runs his talented tongue along the seam of your mouth.

Of course you open willingly for him, of course he gasps like he wasn’t expecting the acceptance, of course you take one of his lips between both of yours.

The drag of teeth on the sensitive skin of the inside of Dave’s lip makes him whine breathily into your mouth, and rear back.

After a quick glance around he’s sloshing toward the tall-walled side of the pool in the shallow end. The water still comes up to the middle of your stomach, and the chill of the tile forces a gasp from you. His body cages you against the hard surface. He begins to devour your mouth in earnest.

It’s agonizingly easy to wrap your limbs more tightly about his waist, and it’s even easier to just let him press his entire self against you and go to town on your face. The line of his body along the line of yours makes you throb, with the heaving and excitement from the splash fight ringing in your head.

Dave retreats from you, eyelids leaden, panting open-mouthed against your cheek. Taking a quick breather. Water laps around your waist, and you hear a dog bark a block away.

It brings you back to where you are. Still outside, still in an unfamiliar place.

A quick look to your surroundings, and you can see that this section of the pool wall is just curved enough to be concealed from both the neighboring houses’ windows. Dave laughs against your neck, where he’s laying a line of sweet, chlorine-scented kisses. On every other one, he sucks lightly at the skin.

Jolts of electricity patter into your brain, making you woozy while Dave’s laughing.

“What? Worried about being seen?” he teases you, even as your fingers in his wet hair pull him closer to your neck.

“Blow me, Dave. Some of us have _ah-_ decency,” you gripe. 

His palms are still steady on the bottom of your thighs- his body’s weight is making it difficult for you to squirm, like you want. He’s got you tightly gripped, held captive.

Dave goes back to the spot that made you gasp. Lips gently caress the skin before he licks a broad line across the muscle.

“No thanks. Been there, done that,” he replies. You’re about to protest and remind him how much he gets off on having your thighs around his head, before he’s biting down hotly on the meat of your shoulder. Just inside the loose collar of your shirt. His blunt teeth sort of massage a line between them, digging half-painfully into the skin before withdrawing. A voracious gasp follows his retreat.

Smooth tongue draws a soothing line across the welt, and he sucks the flesh into his mouth.

So much focus goes into paying attention to what he’s doing that it takes you several minutes to realize you’ve been effectively silenced.

“Gave a truly spectacular blow job under the water at a party back when I was getting my bachelor’s. Almost drowned. Choking on someone’s crotch really does not make for pleasant memories,” he explains, and you’re laughing into his neck.

“And chlorine in the nose is _awful_ ,” Dave continues, exaggerated.

Through the whole explanation, you’re pinned firmly against the side of the pool. His lips move up the side of your neck, he sucks your earlobe into his mouth. It pulls pleasantly on two of the earrings you have in. Your eyes flicker open again, and stars flicker in your vision. Not just the ones in the sky, either.

Seeing the long column of his neck open and waiting, you pull him in by the hair. Your lips and teeth are on him, and Dave whimpers into your ear.

The sound is hot, needy, egging you on like it always does. 

Also like always (or at least most of the time), he pulls away from you before you can get much done. Dave doesn’t even have to worry about hickies for work or anything. And he almost never lets you give them!

Current Karkat thinks that’s an outrage. 

You stick out your tongue .

“Hey,” he says, and you grumble at him. 

Wordlessly, frustrated.

Trying to come up with a plan to move this little show along. 

“I’m not fucking you in this pool, ‘cause that’s just not healthy,” Dave manages.

Before you grin, that is. He gets a playfully warning look in his eyes the instant before you clamp your knees down, and jerk his hips forward with your heels on his ass.

He’s obviously hard when he jerks up into the apex of your thighs. A choking, surprised gasp, curving into a moan on the end. Teeth find your neck again, followed by soft lips like sugar in lemonade. Pinching and pulling, with ricocheting sparks going to each of your limbs in turn.

A satisfied rumble emanates from your chest. Your arms relax on his shoulders, waiting.

“Of _course_ we’re not,” you gasp, “Gonna go all the way in this pool.”

Dave nods against your skin, and he swivels on the lateral axis, repeating the motion you forced before. Lightly, barely, just a hint. A suggestion. And man you’re suggestible. “Okay, yeah,” he murmurs. “Cool with this, definitely cool.”

“But fuck if I don’t want your fingers to have a goddamn festival in these ill-fitting shorts.”

Dave groans. “Yes, please,” he says, and rediscovers your mouth. You sink a few inches again, so that he might have better leverage to rub off on your ass until the end of time.

Dave accepts the change in height readily, using it to his advantage and tilting his face down into yours. The chill of the air on your wet skin nearly disappears beneath his molten touch.

Why are you always messing around with Dave in chilly situations?

It’s a weird pattern.

Isn’t it.

Without prompting, his hips grind into yours again. Your legs clamp down automatically and your mouth opens in a quivering gasp.

It really is too bad that chlorine and water do terrible things to lubrication and internal genitals.

You settle for rolling yourself against Dave’s lower stomach, and relishing in the feeling of his bodily shudder. Something hard protrudes indignantly against you.

Yes, you know what it is, yes, you described it for the poetry of the moment.

…

‘Something.’ Christ you’re pathetic. It’s a dick, okay? A dick. Rock hard, straining almost as much against the trap of the swim trunks as Dave’s arms are straining against the wall.

Without needing to be questioned, Dave lets you slide down just a bit further.

The warmth of the water is blissful, yet goes nearly unnoticed. There are more important things happening. Like the heavy breathing against your neck as your crotch drags down, hot and easy over the bulge in the front of Dave’s shorts. His bare torso is taut with the control he needs to not just rut against you.

It's… _really_ hot.

There’s a moment of pause, quiet; you’re both catching your breath, seeing if this will really go where it wants to. Your eyes close, and your forehead drops to Dave’s collarbone.

The water’s pushed up your tee shirt, exposing your belly. One of Dave’s hands slides around your thigh. It’s his right one, with the crossed scar in the palm. The thumb smoothes up and down your hip, barely dragging along the elastic edge of your temporary binder.

Dave, whisper-soft, kisses the dip behind your ear.

Your heart bounces wild flips in your chest, and the crickets continue to chirp.

Instead of thrusting forward, Dave starts with a slow grind right up into your center. The pressure of it makes you spasm, makes your toes curl. When you angle forward a little, rolling back into Dave, you get some very nice pressure. A quiet moan falls from your lips, and he grinds up into you again.

The slowness of it is both wonderful and agonizing. Dave’s hands shake on your body as he pulls you into his motions. The current moving around the both of you makes for the strangest sensations on your skin, the chill of the air and the heat of your breath make a pocket of intimacy, and your fingertips quiver on their hold on his biceps.

It’s several minutes before you get just the right rhythm. Dave’s left hand palms down to your knee, and back under the shorts’ sleeve. The skin-on skin contact allows for better grip, and he uses it to drive in just a little harder. Just hard enough that the line of his dick just barely parts your lower lips, and you get fabric rubbing up on your clit.

It’s just on this side of the line between comfortable and not, just enough to make you clench your thighs harder around Dave’s waist. And moan, deep. Fairly loud.

“Oh yeah? That feel nice?”

He’s looking real proud of himself when you glare up at him.

And he does it again.

It doesn’t work quite as well the second time, and you’re left frustrated and disappointed, brow wrenched up in expectation only for nothing to make it furrow back down.

And you use this trick a lot, but hey. It works.

Your right hand leaves his bicep, and you drag your blunt fingertips around his left nipple. Dave whimpers, smirk disappearing, and you dig in with your nails.

“Fucking… trump card,” he complains, and an almost wanton moan shreds from his throat when you do the same thing again.

His grinding speeds up, and he seems entirely content to let you clamp his hips to yours with your legs. It reduces movement, but keeps you in that horrible sweet spot of the best possible pressure, crushing the want to think cognitively.

The pool is hard against your back, and Dave is firm against your front, and your breathing is getting to the point of ridiculousness.

And then Dave moves his hand from your hip, and you stop breathing. Like he’s done almost every time before, he pauses with his palm resting on your abdomen, fingers pointed down, and looks up at you in question.

You’re beginning to think he does it just because he wants you to pay special attention to him fingering you. You’re also beginning to wonder if Dave is just as much of a fucking tease as you like to be sometimes.

It’s most likely that he’s a slut for consent, though. Which, hey, not really a huge problem.

So you nod.

And Dave traces a line down your navel, down through the pubes and right to the money.

There’s a brief period where you have to get used to the sensation again, and then you’re making lewd noises, head thrown back. Thankfully, you didn’t hit the wall directly with your skull. The tile is still a little uncomfortable against your scalp, though.

Not that you’re too busy noticing.

There’s not too much brain space to focus on anything other than Dave right now, and his fingers, and his renewed rutting. It’s tormenting, and your breath comes both fast and slow as you try to catch it between your growled groans. Your teeth want something to bite but the bow of your back is tight and strung, and Dave is kissing a sloppy line up the middle of the front of your neck.

It hits you unexpectedly, this time, like a tidal wave smashing you against the rocks, body bouncing and undulating and suddenly you’re overcome with sensation, gasping Dave’s name in a stupidly high voice and trying to breathe.

His hands work you slowly through it, murmuring praise in your ear.

“Ugh, ah- sorry, didn’t feel it, coming,” you apologize, trying to gasp whatever air you can. Dave is still there, bracing you on the wall. His hand withdraws from your shorts, slipping soothingly about your waist.

“It’s fine,” he says. And you know it is.

“But,” you try, loosening the grip on your legs. You’re sensitive, and letting him rub off on you doesn’t sound too bad, but you might have a better idea.

“Makes up for earlier,” he pants. “When I was being a jerk?” He’s still hard, trying to restrain himself from more stuttering thrusts that he only halfway succeeds in preventing.

“Well yeah. I already forgave you for that, you doofus,” you manage right back.

Dave’s eyes go from half-lidded to wide when you push him back. He’s a little gob-smacked.

You wince when your legs come down, creaking from where they were folded up like a lawn chair.

But you muscle through both that and the afterglow laziness. Foregoing any and all attempts at remaining concealed from the neighbors, you push him over to the stairs.

“Get out and sit on the side of the pool, I have a favor to return,” you tell him, and Dave’s face is red even in the pool’s blue underwater light.

He complies, of course, and you’re between his knees in the shallow end before he can even say the word ‘blowjob.’

The shorts are practically glued to his dick at this point, and you have to peel them off. Dave makes a high sound as they go, one hand already clenched in his own hair.

You aren’t that great at sucking dick. But by fuck you give it your best effort, and Dave doesn’t seem to really have any idea what good oral is supposed to feel like.

It takes a surprising amount of focus to keep your lips over your teeth, and properly use your tongue. Cunnilingus is easier, from your very brief exploration into performing that particular task. Of course, you think you remember not being an expert at that either. But… practice. Takes practice.

His spare hand finds your right cheek once you finish releasing him from his shorts. A sweet caress over your cheek, cupping your chin, a slide across your ear and a light scratching of nails in your scalp. His eyes are full of this hybrid mix of lust and wonderment, just like the first time. Just like every time.

You feel a throb down south, and you lean in to take the pink head of his dick into your mouth.

Dave’s thighs flex under your hands, and the hand in your hair pets gently out and around the whorl in the back. A mild suggestion, a request. He’s already at sixty, and he wants to be going forty miles per hour faster. It’s fine for you, but not quite yet.

Teasing, you lick up and down the swollen shaft. The clean scent of chlorine still clings to his skin, even here, partially masked by musk and enhanced by the cooler night air. Dave doesn’t seem to have a problem with the cold, though it does make his chest stand out readily. But your arms aren’t quite long enough for that to not cramp your neck. So.

More tongue on the dick, a hand just under to roll the balls, and he’s actually clenching his fingers in your hair instead of just petting.

A gasp and a moan and several utterances of your name, and you tongue the vein all the way back to the head. And as you slip it past your lips again, you get your first plea.

“Please,” he whispers, clearly focusing on not just pulling your face in so that he has somewhere warm to rest.

“Mouth, so hot, please,” he requests again. Always so polite.

And who are you to deny him? 

A much louder, throatier moan is your reward for sucking him down as far as you can go. It’s pretty far, considering, and then you suck on your way back up, as well.

“K-Karkat,” Dave whimpers to you, barely applying pressure to the back of your head.

His dick is hard on your tongue, salty and hot, slick with your spit.

On the next pass, your nose nearly touches his few blonde pubes, and he hits the back of your throat. Before the gag reflex can kick in, you withdraw and swallow around him.

Dave cries out, brazenly putting his other hand on your chin. He’s coiled around you, eyes squeezed shut and water dripping pleasantly from his hair. Beautiful.

Other hand wrapping around the base of his shaft, you set to bobbing your head up and down, letting the simple trick do the work. Dave’s still groaning and carrying on like you’re the best at this, and you let it get to your head a little, humming around his dick and allowing yourself to be guided by the light pressure on the back of your head.

“Ah, fuck, Karkat, babe, Karkat, close,” he’s repeating like a mantra. And you carry on, humming and sucking and bobbing and generally making a mess of drool and salty pre around your mouth. And it’s worth it, he’s worth it, he’s so worth it.

And you look up at him at a particularly hard suck, and he’s gone, staring molten into your eyes and carried away.

His dick pulses as it fills your mouth, and you seal your lips and stay as deep as possible as Dave finishes. When you swallow, he sees the movement of your throat, feels the extra suction, and groans.

“You’re killing me,” he half-complains.

His dick comes out of your lips with a nice little pop. A dribble of what’s probably cum ended up leaking from your mouth despite your best effort, and he wipes it away with his thumb.

“Favor,” he pants, “Returned.”

You grin, and gently tuck him back in.

Dave’s body is blushing redder than a signal light.

“I would kiss you, but the flavor?”

“Not that great,” Dave agrees.

You snort.

By the time you’re walking, wobbly, out of the pool, Dave is already wrapped in a towel. As he hands you yours, you pull him in for a kiss.

Dave is grimacing at the taste when you part, even as he follows your retreating lips with his own.

“That,” you say, “Can be your payback.”

Dave’s too busy laughing to consider thinking about it too much.

"Yeah well I'm the one who got the good succ here," he taunts, and holds his towel up as a shield. You can _hear_ the two c's in the word 'Succ'.

The towel doesn't defend him from your irritated smack on the back of his head. 

When you manage to reach him. 

And jump up to be able to do so. 

He's dissolved into giggles by the time you manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!!!! 
> 
> coming up next time: april fools shenanigans! 
> 
> hope everyone liked that chapter, i know its been awhile and i hope yall are doing great!! love yall, and have a good week!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we're all april fools

For April Fools’ Day, you put saran wrap on the toilet. 

Sollux definitely doesn’t fall for it.

You do get to witness him dissolving into stitches before you leave for work. When he wakes up and sees the eighty tiny pictures of Jesus Christ, Our Lord And Savior that you put up around the apartment. Complete with bible quotes. 

He vows, with his hand over his heart on his bare skinny chest, to keep the one that’s stuck to the middle of the fridge with a cross-shaped magnet. 

“Deuteronomy 28:53. Fucking,” Sollux is having a hard time breathing normally. “Fucking Christ, Karkat. That’s the one about, hahaha, cannibalism, holy FUCK,” he manages, lisping even more in the morning than usual, and almost falls to his knees with how hard he’s laughing. "Since when did we start keeping fucking _bodies_ in the fridge??"

Pride makes this warm spot in your chest that you don’t quite have the time to fill with coffee today. You’re such a great roommate. You know his sense of humor so fucking well.

A prank is expected from him when you get home later. 

Dave has to meet with a professor tomorrow morning, so there’s no sleeping over tonight. But you are seeing him later. He even asked you to pick up some groceries while you were doing your own shopping. He said ‘what, of course, you can totally keep your shit in the fridge while we make out and grind on each other for three hours instead of watching a movie later’. 

So. 

Leaving Sollux gasping for breath, you pick up your keys and get out the door.

 

 

* * *

 

After a very... interesting day, it’s finally the end of your shift.

Ten minutes over the end of it, actually, and you’ve just clocked out. Your reusable grocery bags are in your hands, and you’ve got your hand on the break room door. 

It’s been a long fucking shift. It was only a six hour shift today, but… here. Have a list. 

1 (one) slushie spilled on you, two heavy carts rolled over your foot, a child throwing grapes at you to see if you would catch them, twenty-nine customers that were confused about how to _use_ the self check-out, six more customers who didn’t understand and got angry about not being able to buy alcohol in self check-out, several people asking you the locations of things that definitely were not your department (self checkout), one person who insisted on paying entirely in nickels and made you count them three times, and then someone whacking you in the head with their giant Tupperware storage bin. 

It was a refreshing morning.

And now, you get to go home and see Dave. 

Maybe you’ll see if you can trade a handjob for a foot rub. Dave is prone to give you whatever you want regardless. But you always feel better if he gets something in return. Because he never has sore feet. Maybe a shoulder rub? Scalp massage? He liked that, once before.

A part of you feels guilty about pandering to Dave’s weakness for your hands, but… why not? It’s easy, he likes it. Dave would honestly be content to just kiss you once, just a peck on the lips, as a ‘repayment’ if you were to insist. 

He would grin, that lazy and curling smile he saves just for you. The thought makes your face flame up, and you absently reach up to adjust your septum.

Dave would, yet again, be fine with nothing. 

But.

You’re a stickler for equivalent exchange. 

And, honestly?

Dave gives such good foot rubs. You’re almost obligated to return a favor of _some_ kind. At least you think so. You’ve never had a boyfriend that would do shit like that for you before.

Dave is… one of a kind.

You’re about to push out of the break room and go pick up some groceries – some for yourself, and the few things for Dave because he asked so very sweetly – when you’re stopped.

“Karkat?” your manager’s voice comes from behind you. “Do you have a minute?”

Your fingers clench on the knob. 

When you turn around, he’s holding a clipboard in one hand, with a file on it. You can see your name sticking out of the side of that file. He’s tapping a pen on the clipboard, and giving you that smile. Everyone knows that smile. That smile managers have got to be trained in or something. That beatific smile that means you’re either going to be fired, or asked to improve performance. 

Maybe a raise. 

You did ask for a raise two weeks ago at your review, since someone else got one and they had been working there for less time. 

But the likelihood of a raise? Slim. 

Very. Fucking unlikely. 

Something sinks in your chest, and you struggle to keep your face at a careful neutral.

Maybe you should go out drinking with Jade to celebrate if you get fired, or your hours get taken down. 

Jade’s fun to drink with. 

The memory of your last outing gives you a bit of levity. 

She tends to draw little shitty pictures on napkins underneath her number, which she gives out way too easily once intoxicated. Jade also likes to howl at the moon in the middle of busy streets, and exhibit reckless behavior and you have to keep her in line… then again. You’ve just been missing her.

You don’t see much of your friends anymore with all the time you spend with Dave.

It would probably be much easier if you lived together, so you wouldn’t have to divide your time as much. 

Sollux was talking about Fef and Eridan wanting to move in, anyway. 

They’re doing this awful bohemian artist “fake poor” shit right now, so they’d be right at home in your vacated space. Not like they couldn't afford it, past the grunge. They're pretty fucking loaded.

If you lose your job, you won’t be able to afford your half of expenses, either. 

Whatever. It’s not gonna happen anytime soon, most likely. Your lease isn’t up for another several months anyway. 

“Karkat?” your boss asks, and you snap out of your reverie. 

Turning fully, straightening and instinctually stepping away from the door so as to not block traffic, you give him what you hope is a friendly half-smile. Ready to help, definitely suited for this job, please keep me here. 

“Yes? I’ve got a few minutes, what can I do for you?” you ask, careful to keep your customer service voice on. 

Your manager’s face tightens briefly, but then smooths back out into what it was at before. 

“If you could come in twenty minutes early on Wednesday morning so that we could talk? That would be fantastic,” he offers, and nods like you understand. 

Which you do. 

“Yeah sure!” you say. Friendly, Vantas, friendly. It’s Saturday. You’ve got time to worry about this. Not in front of your boss.

And you nod back, smiling.

And then he. Holds out his hand.

And you reach out to shake it. 

And you shake it.

And he nods and leaves. 

And you numbly exit the room, and pick up a cart, and go about your shopping.

 

 

* * *

 

After pulling up to Dave’s and grabbing the groceries from the back seat, you lock the car and head inside. You’re still feeling a little off, because you have no idea what the news could be. 

You haven’t been asked to improve your behavior, you haven’t been asked to work more or less hours. This meeting seems like… a significant thing. And they hired on a new several associates recently. You’ve been training a new cashier to do your same job. 

Dread is trying to filter into your lungs, and you’re not having it. 

You pass by the paranoid old neighbor in his front yard and say hello to his dog, he calls you something you don’t hear and you flip him off. It takes quite a bit of effort to raise your hand while it’s weighed down by thirty pounds of groceries. 

But you manage.

Dave is the only one who says hello to this particular neighbor. He’s patient with him, and a little quiet, and takes the dog on his runs with him on occasion. You don’t have much patience for the old man because of one or two badly-timed racist comments. The guy is senile and stays away from homophobia because of Dave’s pretty lenient and friendly attitude toward him. 

The man does take care of his service dog, though. That dog gets fairly regular baths and the good food despite the guy being too crotchety to manage easily. 

You don’t like to run, but Dave likes to have company. So he exercises the pooch. It’s also good for Dave. Something about releases of good hormones or something from looking into a dog’s eyes? Whatever. 

Dave’s good on his own but the adoration in his eyes for the black lab from next door? Incredible. 

You’re getting off track. 

You take the keys from your hand and flip to the copy Dave made you for his house. John approved, you just had to meet his dad. 

It was an interesting meeting. John’s father had held you by the shoulders while Dave grinned behind you, and scrutinized you for a full five minutes. His pipe, sans smoke, twitched in his mouth and you tried to seem as inoffensive as possible. 

After those five minutes, you were wrapped in a hug that smelled like tobacco and... some kind of cake-y smell. Is that an old spice scent? Maybe not. You don’t spend much time in the pharmacy department. And again, with the soap thing. Of course, this speculation was before you noticed the plethora of cupcakes on the kitchen counter.

Their father had then held you at arm’s length, nodded, said ‘good pick, Dave, he’s a keeper,’ and gone off to continue making dinner. The man was very proper and asked you questions about yourself for the rest of the evening. 

It was… odd. But you liked it. 

Back to the present, after that incredibly shallow little dip into memory. 

Into the house, too busy juggling groceries to look at the living room as you pass on the way to the kitchen. 

“Hun?” Dave’s voice calls from the other room. He’s got a laugh accenting the word. It makes you want to grin again. 

You start to put his food away where it goes, so that you can just shove your stuff into the bottom shelf and go out to join him. He probably has some lame prank or another stored up for you. Maybe a shitty roleplay costume from the sex shop five blocks from where you work. It’s definitely something he’d joked about. 

“Your neighbor’s dog was wearing a blue bandana today,” you say. It doesn’t take long to put shit away, and very soon you’re finishing the task. "It's very cute."

“The Mayor?” Dave calls back. 

You finish with his things, put your own where you said you would, and turn the corner to the living room. 

“Yeah—“ and you stop dead in your tracks. 

To provide an astounding visual, you’re going to obnoxiously describe the room. 

There are chili pepper lights strung across the ceiling and the tops of the bookshelves. 

There’s a huge Texas flag hung longways across the wall behind him, and Dave is sitting in a circle of various cowboy paraphernalia. Whip, cacti, ten gallon hat, very plastic guns, a few toy horses, some horseshoes. A John Wayne movie is playing in the background. He's got the stupid foot-tall stuffed bear with the sheriff hat, bandana and star sitting next to his right foot on the floor. 

The date, to the arcade. You played most of the games admirably, and then you got to a claw machine. That little punk ass was just sitting there on the top. You waster five dollars trying to get it. Dave managed to get it with just fifty cents. It's so unfair.

You were right about the costume, by the way. 

Dave’s in the center of all the crap, holding a guitar in both hands. It’s delicately decorated, and he’s wearing full western wear. Minus the serape. Jeans, chaps, plaid shirt, vest, belt with a huge buckle, rope and work gloves on his hip, hat on his head, boots on his feet. With spurs. 

They clink as he shifts, and you stand there agape. 

He’s grinning at you, with a piece of… straw???? Sticking out of the left side of his mouth. 

He tips his hat at you. 

“Howdy, Darlin’,” he tells you, and you don’t say anything. 

The accent doesn’t sound fabricated. It sounds slow and familiar and genuine, despite the hokey words. Of course, you live in Texas, but most people don’t even have a discernable accent. Dave’s putting his out on purpose. It’s adorable. 

“Take a seat there partner,” he adds, indicating a bean bag in front of him that looks like it’s covered in cow hide. Spots and all. 

So.

You sit. 

Cross-legged, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees and your hands over your chin and mouth. 

The smile puts itself on your face, and you can’t help your little giggle. 

“Borrowed Eridan’s fucking guitar for this, he said it didn’t matter anyway. He never plays this thing. Took me a million years to tune it,” he says. Oh yeah. So that’s where he got it. 

“What the hell are you doing, Dave?” you ask him, and he just smiles shyly, and doesn’t answer you. 

But he starts to play you a song. 

There are speakers nearby that you hadn’t seen before, and they play a little accompaniment melody. 

“Now, this is Wonderwall,” Dave murmurs absently. 

Like habit. 

And also like habit, his fingers move stiffly on the frets and squeak on the strings, and he starts to sing. 

Very softly, at first. Hesitant. 

“You always had an eye for things that glittered, but I was far from being made of gold. I don't know how but I scraped up the money; I just never could quite tell you no,” he drawls out, and you snort into your hand. 

A small smile on his lips, nervous and shaky.

“Just like when you were leavin’ Amarillo,” he keeps going.

You watch his eyes sparkle as he sings, and he carefully examines his own fingers on the instrument in his hands. 

The sound of country music tumbling carefully out of his lips is surprisingly smooth, surprisingly good. Dave has a nice singing voice. Not… anything to call an agent about. But it’s pleasant to hear, sore from lack of practice. 

By end of the second verse, you’re laughing for whatever reason. Just into your hands. Not at him. Every twang of a vowel, every gently plucked note. When he pauses once or twice, trying to remember the chords and then catching up again later, you find your shoulders relaxing and your entire being sinking into a mess of mush. Dave bites his lip at those times. It just adds to the charm. 

You’re definitely not one for country music. Not at all. It’s not your thing. 

But you’d watch Dave sing for you anytime. 

And you’re drawn back to before, when he told you about his therapy. 

This is a part of him and his healing. And he’s sharing it with you, whether it was his intent or not. 

“Just to see you smile, I’d do anything,” he croons, a little more confidently. It’s obviously the chorus, and it’s easier for him to remember the progression of notes in his hands. 

“…that you wanted me to,” he continues. 

The words of the song are melancholy, but it’s the chorus he’s _really_ singing to you. The affection, the… there’s that four letter word again. He’s singing it to make you smile, then? 

He’s succeeding. 

By the end of the song, you’ve got your chin in your hands, and your face hurts. 

“Come on, Dave. This isn’t even a real prank,” you scold. Never seriously, you would never make him do anything he didn’t want to. 

“Yeah, but I got you to laugh. Yeah?” he asks, switching back into his normal speaking voice. He’s smiling all dopey and soft, like kittens and fresh laundry and, _God._

Chin tilted up, waiting for you to lean in and kiss him. Eyes half closed. He’s so happy. 

“Yeah you did, you giant buffoon,” you murmur, leaning in. 

His grin is so bright you’re blinded. Dave looks halfway between a laugh and a sigh. Blissful. It hurts, it’s so lovely.

You reach out and squish a hand over the top of his head under the hat, at the last second choosing to curve it down and mush his cheek with your fingertips. “And maybe I needed it today,” you tell him, and then stretch forward enough to pull him in and peck him on the nose. Disheveled is a good look on Dave.

When you pull further back, Dave looks concerned. He’s placed the guitar on the floor next to him, and his head is tilted as he gazes up at you, now. 

“What happened?” he asks, and… you remember. 

The stress comes flooding in, and you work to tamp it down. Dave looks more distressed, and no, you didn’t want that. Frowning, you let him put his hands on your knees and you sit up straight. 

“Manager asked to see me before work on Wednesday,” you tell him. Honestly. Honesty is good for you. Sometimes you have to remember that. You're mostly successful sharing everything with Dave. And he really likes it, you know.

Dave winces as well. He trails his hands up your arms from your knees, and cups your face in both hands. His cowboy hat falls off, and you snort weakly at the silliness of it before glancing back at his eyes. 

“They like you there, and you work hard. Right? It’s totally gotta be good news,” he reassures you. And gives you a little peck on the cheek. There’s the whir of the fan, and the little recording he had queued up for the accompaniment fades back in, looping on itself. 

He’s staring into your eyes with just a bit of hope and lot of forced determination. 

Something in you lets itself attach like a burr to his optimism. 

Just a very small something.

 

 

* * *

 

Fast forward to Wednesday.

You barge into the house, not bothering to close the door after you. There are tears in your eyes, and you’re almost choking on your own breath. You deliberately stomp past John cooking in the kitchen and almost bowl him over with a hot crock pot in his arms. 

Dave is walking from his room to the bathroom. He sees you walking toward him and stops, blearily blinking. Must have just woken from a nap. At the look on your face and your bloodshot eyes, he seems to alert almost instantaneously.

It's hard to meet his eyes as you stop just a couple of feet from your boyfriend. You grip your hair, take a deep breath, and close your eyelids. They almost itch where they fall, they want to stay open so desperately.

His voice is full of both surprise and concern. “What, what, what happened, man?” he’s asking, urgent. 

When you look up at him, his face is wrenched with concern. He knew today was the day. He wished you luck. You were too shocked to text him what the result was before you drove to see him. You’re stiff and moving all at once, a taut string of tension and energy. 

Dave smiles a little warily, a comforting smile. He reaches out to curve his body around your general space. Like a shell. Protective. He does that a lot.

You’re still almost shaking, containing your news. 

John sighs behind you and moves to close the door before all the inside air can suffuse with the humidity from the rain earlier this afternoon.

Dave seems to realize something is up, and his look goes from worry to confusion. 

With that, like a light flips on, and you’re smiling this painful and crooked smile that takes up half of your face. 

Dave grunts as you fling your entire weight toward him in a hug.

More of a tackle, really. You’re a goddamn emotional linebacker. 

Dave doesn’t even budge, just picks you up a little as you impact with his stomach.

“I got the promotion! I got promoted to assistant manager!!” you exclaim, kissing him square on the mouth. John is making a retching noise from the end of the room as he very obviously goes back to what he was doing. 

Dave’s face splits into a real, wide-eyed, genuine smile. He kisses you while you’re laughing, again, and you splutter when your teeth knock together. A frustrated growl and some muttering about stupidity later, and Dave is putting you down on the floor. 

“Happy is such a good look on you,” he says. 

And you laugh. 

Dave makes you smile so much.

Things are so good right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! this just in: im a fucking SAP
> 
> hope everyone's been doing well! ive been real busy with life stuff so i apologize for the lack of posting or writing! hahaha. 
> 
> the song that dave sings is "just to see you smile" by Tim Mcgraw! he _said_ he knew an embarrassing amount of tim mcgraw songs /shrug. here's a good song link if ya wanna listen. i like this cover! [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bDxFwAn7DaI)
> 
> the claw machine toy thing was very blatantly taken from my friend poyitjdr in a text message. lol. also thank you to everyone that let me bounce ideas around with them so far. i love you all, haha, and thank you so much for the character inspiration and everything. im actually so bad at this! shhh, no one knows!
> 
> hope everyone has a wonderful week!!! and ill see you soon! next chapter is already written!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dave gets fuckin' reamed

During his final exam week, Dave sent you a text message apologizing for the minor fight you had the previous night on the phone. He said that you should also celebrate Memorial Day early this year with him, the weekend after his finals finish. You hadn’t seen him for about three and a half weeks, which is ridiculous by your standards. He’d been busy with studying, finals, keeping up his scholarships and getting papers done.

The late night phone calls were getting tense, you argued a lot, you missed him too much and you were both suffering a bit from the other’s absence. It was easy to suffer from that. Five months is a long time to be together.

Why Memorial day, you wondered blithely. We don’t even know any veterans. You aren’t even white enough for this holiday. The weekend he mentioned was three days from then. Friday was, at least.

OKAY THEN. I’LL SEE YOU ON SATURDAY.

you sure will. johns on a trip with his dad this weekend too. miss you babe

Alright. So four days. And then Dave sent you a winky face. And a lenny face.

 

* * *

 

That’s how you ended up here.

Standing in Dave’s bedroom doorway, duffle bag drooping off of your shoulder, half open.

Staring at Dave’s choice ass, as he bends over to retrieve a box from beneath his bed.

Mouth agape.

Said choice ass is snuggled firmly inside a pair of the tightest stars-and-stripes underpants you’ve ever seen. They hug all the right curves just so. They accentuate the package you can see very barely as he folds in two. God but you want to see them from the front.

And the briefs.

They have a smaller, slightly off color American flag printed across the ass.

And inside the smaller, off-color flag…

Is the tiny printing of the phrase “God Bless” in black and white meme font.

It’s repulsive to the extreme, design-wise. And you know that’s why he bought them. Maybe he designed them on some kind of rancid lovechild of Zazzle and Snorgtees, if they sold underwear. But God, if the idea that he’s wearing themed underpants – as an “early holiday celebration” in an attempt to be kinky – isn’t getting to you.

In the best way.

What can you say. You’re weak for cliché.

And also maybe for Dave’s bad tries at being sexier than he already is.

When the ass moves, your eyes get unglued. You glare at Dave. He’s looking back at you over one shoulder, now standing straight up.

You hadn’t noticed it before, but he’s also wearing his white tank top with the red hems. The one that says “*nudges boyfriend at 3am* pretty fucked up that we assume wall-e is a boy. it’s a robot. chad? wake up chad. listen. it’s sexless.”

Dave doesn’t even USE his tumblr for anything but posting aesthetic pictures and really AWFUL memes. He doesn’t have a good twitter anymore, either. What the fuck?

It’s not… the shirt isn’t even sexy, is it? Like sure it shows off his arms nicely but it’s a meme shirt. Why is your heart racing. Why do you need to close your mouth? Why does Dave look oddly victorious?

Why is he… oh.

Dave’s running his right hand up the back of his thigh, round the curve, and then pushing up the shirt in the back.

He’s got what you hope to God is a temporary tattoo of another American flag on his tailbone. Christ.

“Christ,” you whisper. It’s not really a positive sound, but he’s smirking anyway. His other hand ‘seductively’ removes his sunglasses.

They catch on both his ear and right nostril.

He’s such a beautiful disaster.

“Not quite, but I’m sure you’ll remember my name later,” Dave purrs. “When you’re pounding me into the wall. I even cleaned up for you.”

The implication that he doesn’t usually clean up isn’t very sexy. But you know what he means. Fortunately. Rushing heat lines the insides of your veins from toe to crown. Dave’s eyes darken, and you feel the mood go from what was probably playful to something way more volatile. But volatile in the good way.

“Fuck,” you manage. Somehow.

Then you’re on him, of course.

The iffy sound that the duffle bag makes when it hits the floor registers at about the same time that you reach Dave.

He sighs, sinking to one knee on the bed as your mouth latches onto his shoulder. It gives you better height to do what you want, and you appreciate it. Dave is just way too fucking tall sometimes. You let your hands creep from his hips, to his stomach. He shudders beautifully as you run your fingers just barely down past his navel, then back up. Under the tank top.

“Did you do well on your exams?” You ask, even though you know the answer. Your voice is shaking, and you barely manage to make it still in your throat.

Dave nods, and you sink a kiss just below his right ear. The sensitive spot. You nuzzle that little divot, slipping your fingers further and further up his chest.

“Oh really?” You ask, as you reach his nipples. _Always_ the nipples with him. The left hand gets there first, for some reason. Dave gasps, flinches into your fingertips. The box is still in his hands. The box from beneath the bed.

“So good,” he replies. It ends on the tiniest of moans, and the box in his hands shakes. You know very well what that box is. Your right hand reaches the other side, and both index fingers circle their respective areolas. Dave warbles a little more, and he falls forward just a bit on that braced knee.

As your weight bears down on him, Dave gives another shuddering sigh.

His tank top feels good on the inside of your half-bared biceps. But his skin feels even better against your forearms. Cuddling stopped being such a good option months ago, when the temperature started rising. It feels colder in the house today, though. Conveniently.

John would never approve, since he likes the heat so much.

He’s not here, though.

Dave groans again when you pinch his chest, and roll the nubs in your fingers just so. He’s kind of a stuttering mess by the thirty-second mark of this treatment. His waist flexes, and his hips press back against yours.

It feels so _perfect_ to thrust forward into his hindquarters, to hear him moan at the weak facsimile of what he apparently really wants. You pant against his neck.

“C’mon, man. C’mon,” he beseeches you, reedy.

Because he technically didn’t say what he wanted, you press your body down on him. He gets the hint easily enough, and some more weak words of frustration leave him even as he’s bending forward to accommodate your wants.

He complains so much when he’s not the one on the pitcher’s mound.

He complains less when you push him closer to the bed with your hips against his pert ass, though. And he’s definitely not complaining when you take the time to remove one of your hands from spoiling his nipples to reach down and grasp the leg of his that’s not bent already.

It lifts a little too easily onto the bed next to the other. Dave’s eagerly crawled forward ahead of you. The sight of “God Bless” staring back at you, with half of Dave’s ass cheeks just hanging out… it disarms you completely. It’s an unholy mix of exasperation, adoration, and lust that fills your cheeks with red.

At some point you have half the mind to get right back on top of him and continue the Lord’s work of getting him way too worked up.

Now, you’ve thought of a better way.

A much better way.

Those voluminous mounds of muscle taunt you, even as you’re gently reaching your hands toward them. The tank top has ridden up to the middle of Dave’s spine, pooling in loose wrinkles right where his back once more begins to curve upward. It’s a beautiful view.

Not as beautiful as the sound Dave makes when you very gently flex your fingers on his butt. His derriere. Gluteus maximus. The trunk. The junk. The junk _in_ the trunk, even.

Christ. You’ve never been an ass man. When Dave moans as you slip your fingers between the layer of cotton and his skin, though… you might be.

Maybe it’s the underwear. Maybe you’re frustrated and a few rounds of phone sex didn’t properly satisfy it. Maybe it’s Dave, acting like he just wants to totally surrender to you. Maybe that’s it. It’s just as hot as when he takes charge. Hotter, even.

Habanero hot.

Ghost chili hot.

Okay, enough of that. Shitty metaphors. You were never like this before.

Dave is even pushing back into your hands as he nudges the box just enough out of the way that he can fall face-forward on the bed and not have it stab him in the chest. You massage the ass, he sighs, knead the ass, he sighs again, gently run your fingers up and around and dip them oh so subtly to the front, around the outside. You’re not venturing into Testicle Junk Land yet. The molten hot air in the tent in the front gives you a good enough idea of how much Little Dave is liking the attention.

“God this should not feel as g-good as it does,” Dave groans.

So you place your thumbs just outside the center seam of the briefs, and spread the cheeks just enough for the seam to sink in. Just a touch. Right up against his taint and balls.

Dave, predictably, unleashes an actual moan at that. A not-found-in-porn-as-a-general-realistic-sounding-thing-coming-from-the-mouths-of-men moan. When you dip one thumb in to run across his (clean) pucker, he moans higher, breathier.

You’re dizzy with the noise.

“Shit, Karkat. Sh-shit.”

You lean over to press a hot kiss into the tattoo at the base of his spine. And… yep. Temporary. It’s flaking off even now. Thank God, you can stay with him now. It’s a good idea to not question how he got it so perfectly centered.

It’s also a good idea to definitely not think about the possibly thirty different sheets of temporary American flag tattoos he probably has hidden away somewhere in here. Then you’d really have to leave him.

That’s a joke.

Probably.

“Roll over,” you tell him. Dave legitimately whines. Not in the sexy way, either. In the same way he does when you steal his fries.

“Come on, you complete baby,” you reprimand. When he looks up at you, mid-turnover, you roll your eyes in a big way. “I wanna kiss you. I haven’t kissed you in weeks.”

“I didn’t know you were into ageplay,” he grumbles. Rolling your eyes is the only natural course of action.

Dave still looks a little put out, even as he scoots to the edge of the bed so that you can stay at his height. The pout turns into something a little more playful and suitable for the occasion. Maybe he’s hoping you’ll roll him back over again. Ha.

“I can still fondle your… what do you call them to make me mad? ‘Ass globes’, from the front,” you remind him. Dave looks a little more excited at the prospect of more fondling, and spreads his thighs to beckon you in between.

You’re wearing basketball shorts, so you can’t really feel his leg hair. But you know it’s there as you move in, and you can feel it pulling the fabric of your clothes. His leg hair is just about as light as the hair on his head. It’s fascinating to see it catch the light.

Whatever.

Dave’s arms are relaxed, stretching his torso in a gently sloping curve across the bed. You lean in across the soft hills of his lean and lazy musculature to nose his tank top up his chest. Your tongue traces a line up under his pec, and across the nipple. Yep. Again with the nipples.

His full torso jerks under the touch when you lightly mouth over his left areola, drawing a circle around it and then sucking the skin in between your lips.

Unfortunately you don’t have all night for nipple play.

Dave looks a whole lot less (playfully) grumpy when you grab his face, and immediately take his mouth.

The kisses are soft, tacky, like your strawberry candies and his toothpaste. They never get old, with the oceanic push and pull of the music in between your mouths. Spit-slick and hot, movement of molten air and muscle to make a melody.

It’s like he’s been waiting for this, too. He just didn’t know it. The frustration from not seeing him, your last real conversation being a fight, his stress from school, they all just roll off the two of you like water off a duck’s back. You missed him so much. His touch, his attentiveness. His smell and taste.

Dave hums a little tune into your mouth. Snarky, making you growl. You’re trying to get him to be more serious, to get into the right mood again. The kisses are more heated, due to the throb between your legs and the fucking statue between his.

Eventually you allow your hands to wander again. One of Dave’s arms holds him up so that he can keep kissing you given your height, and the other flops around your neck, giving you ample room to survey his torso with your touches. It’s a signal, along with the optimistic hum in his throat. And you could take him up on that. You really could.

But he really does have a nice ass.

And your hands apparently are very eager to get back to it.

Going from the waistband this time, you slide back into the wonder down under.

It’s so much easier to hear Dave’s breath hitch when he’s doing it directly into your mouth. It’s addicting, the way he just barely moans when you flex your hands, how he really moans when you run another finger over his hole, how he _really_ makes noise when press the flats of your fingers against it, with intent.

It makes you weak with tension, jittery with excitement.

Eventually you release him from the torture to free his crotch snake from the basket.

…since when the fuck have you started talking like that? Too many euphemisms, too much room for error. Here, how about this: Dave’s cock throbs hotly in your grasp as you stroke it from root to head.

He whines against your lips. The sexy kind this time.

Mmm, yeah. It’s about Dave tonight.

He always makes it so much about you.

It’s his turn.

You know what the box, sitting so innocently next to you on the bed, has within it.

He studied _hard_ , right?

So he deserves this.

Dave shudders again when you push on his chest, laying him out before you on the bed.

It’s almost like he can read your mind when he creeps backwards and lets his knees fall invitingly to the sides.

Now, it takes you a minute, but you get your arms inside your shirt and get your binder off. Dave’s fingers help pull your zipper down, not skipping a beat to draw his fingertips over the rarely-bared skin of your upper torso.

The gesture makes you shiver as his touch crosses your shoulderblades.

It may be a slightly unsexy pause, but after one incident involving a _very_ bad side cramp that turned into a _very_ bad strain that lasted for a couple days, you nearly always take off your binder for sex. If you decide to exercise (why), you put on one of your older, looser ones. Breathing heavily isn’t fun inside a hard casing. And breathing is so much sexier than not breathing.

Once that’s done, though, you look back up. Dave’s gotten around to stretching his arms over his head after removing his tank top. He’s striking what is possibly the most lewd pose you know him to be capable of when he’s on his back. If it wasn’t actually sexy, you would probably roll your eyes.

One of his hands is trying to creep for his dick. You smack it lightly away.

And, to your surprise, Dave only looks slightly offended before returning his hand to rest next to the other.

Of course, his eyes are also glued pretty firmly to your own hands as you reach for the box.

You set it, without the lid, open on his stomach.

Dave flinches from the chill of the box. It makes his abdomen do delicious things and his eyes burn.

“I can’t believe you still keep a box for this stuff. You have lube and condoms in your bedside drawer like a normal adult, don’t you?” you ask him, chuckling just a smidge. Before removing the contents of the box, you grip his waist, and drag him toward you across his covers. He shudders as his thighs are forced wider around your waist, and his legs have to almost contort in order to keep his heels firmly on the edge of the mattress.

“Hey. I don’t want John messing with it,” Dave protests. Or he tries, at least. The warmth of his body is doing things to you, too. It’s hard to not just cave and fold over him already. You pull a decently sized, bright fucking firetruck red dildo out of the box. Attached to a harness already, of course. You’d left this one here the last time you used it. _After_ cleaning it.

Dave flushes from his belly button to his forehead as you pull it out and untangle the straps. His elbows twitch up around his head, like he wants to cover his face. His dick twitches in earnest.

It’s dual density, six inches, and it vibrates. Stately. Modest, even, as this kind of dick go. The only reason you like the other one better is because it has balls on it. Which, granted. Aren’t the best for the harness? In your personal experience.

You lay it out on the bed next to him, and leave one hand rubbing lightly over the inside of his knee, while you lean over and with the other, grab the lube from the bedside table. The good shit.

And a glove or three, for good measure. You’d splurged and gotten the black ones. Much sexier.

Dave’s voice is creaky as he starts to ramble, like he always does. When you look up at him, his face is turned upward, and almost as red as the dildo. He gets so flustered about this. Even still, now, he gets so worked up.

He’s determinedly not looking as you pull off your underwear, and step into the harness. He’s still not looking as you remove the box from his stomach and the bed entirely. He’s very decidedly not looking as you fasten buckles with one practiced hand, and use the other to stroke very lightly up and down the outline of his cock through the fabric. When you’d caressed it, earlier, it got enough movement to peek the head of itself out of the waistband of his horrendous underwear.

The litany of tiny sounds escaping from between his lips is so wonderful.

That underwear will be gone by morning. Burned, maybe.

You’re planning on it.

There’s a small dribble of precum on his belly. On the next upstroke, you swipe your thumb through it, and circle the head, very gently. That gets Dave’s attention enough that when you finish with the harness and have both hands on him, he looks up. His eyes are burning with want, and you dip in to kiss his open mouth.

He’s silenced, breathing heavily, when what he had called so lovingly before The Big Red Fuck Machine brushes alongside his cock. A strained noise comes out like spilling marbles against your lips. To be affecting him this much, he must have gotten worked up before you got here. Dave’s hands clench in the sheets above his head. The fabric strains around his knuckles.

The pressure on the harness pushes it into your slit, and the fabric on the front pad just barely rubs against your clit. That bare, fraction-of-a-second touch makes you gasp into _Dave’s_ mouth, this time. He smirks, for whatever reason. You reach back down and readjust the harness. It’s jock style. That’s not even supposed to happen (you’re lying again). And yet.

“What do you want, Dave?” you ask him, like molten caramel, making your voice the deepest it’ll go. He shivers, but doesn’t answer you. So you kiss him again, lighter this time, and draw back to drip some lube out onto your newly gloved fingers.

When you return to Dave, you’ve got your left hand back on his chest. He sighs, and then twitches bodily as you thumb the left nipple.

“I, ah,” he tries. You’ve got him defeated, though.

The thumb of your right hand pushes the briefs aside enough to fit your hand into the right leg hole. They’re remarkably stretchy. Curious.

Your right middle finger circles the pucker, slick. Dave makes another creaky sound that cracks through the center like he’s been disarmed. You know how that feels, and you’re pretty sure it’s more of a knowledge-of-what-to-come response than anything. It’s still hot, though.

“Hmm?” you try again.

“Mmmh, fuck,” he says. And that’s not really an answer, is it?

Your middle finger breaches the ring of muscle, sliding so easily in that it might as well be a trick. When you quirk a brow at Dave, he just whines. The sexy way again.

“I have to get off in the shower sometimes. And, haaaah,” he pants. You take the easy passage as an invitation for impropriety, and just push your finger in the rest of the way. It takes him off guard, and his voice is like glorious angel song as you slide it out, and back in again.

“I just keep, imagining,” he keeps trying, and keeps getting flustered. Dave Strider, bottom boy extraordinaire. Muscles twitching at your touch, futilely trying to remain calm. “Still feels fucking weird until you get to the good shit, though.”

“What do you imagine, Dave?” You ask him, and insert another finger with the first. It’s difficult to remember that you’re trying to be more suave than you could ever hope to realistically be. Dave’s stomach muscles roll, and your hand travels back down to his hip so that you can feel it. You push forward just enough to let the BRFM drag back against his cock, and frame his lips with yours.

After he’s done moaning again, he manages a full sentence.

Thighs grip tightly around your waist, holding you in. It feels so good for him to grip you like he never wants you to leave this spot.

“I imagine you fucking me again, every goddamn ti-haaaaa-ime!” It’s rushed, like he’ll be gone any second. After that, he dissolves a little more, back into the incoherence.

“Is that what you want, Dave?” You ask him. He nods enthusiastically. Two fingers allows for more precision on what you’re looking for, and Dave nearly shakes with his moan when his prostate is pegged.

You’ve only penetrated him a few times. Maybe four or five. It’s less convenient, with the amount of prep it takes. And it makes Dave sorer than it makes you, as well. You don’t mind being the recipient at all. Or a good sixty-nine. Dave likes riding you well enough, when he’s the one receiving. Any combination of the above and other various acts.

“Say it, Dave,” you tell him. Voice quavering on the edge despite your best efforts.

He groans again, and you slip in the third finger, working in and out. It’s not really necessary, at this point, but hey. Too much prep is almost never a bad thing. And you are definitely liking the reactions you’re getting out of Dave.

“Fuck me,” he manages, between heavy breaths.

Boy are you ready to.

It takes more than a small amount of restraint to keep your cool. God, you know how much he likes it when you stay painfully calm. Even after months, you’re still not exactly sure why. You’ve got a few ideas, though. Maybe something about not being able to keep ahold of himself, while you can. Maybe something about you being in complete control. A lot of maybe somethings.

You murmur against his lips. “Do you want it from the back?”

Dave nearly chokes. He wasn’t expecting the pop quiz.

But so eagerly, he rushes out, “Over the desk.”

Huh.

That wasn’t something you’d thought of as an option, yourself.

In your brain, for a split second, it strikes you as more pop quiz humor. It takes you a moment to remember that you’d only made that joke to yourself.

There was an intent made clear at some point, wasn’t there? Who are you to be playing foolish? Of course you remember the first morning after. It was pretty memorable.

“Alright.”

When you remove your fingers from him with an obscene slurping noise, he groans for probably the hundredth time. Dave’s legs fall lazily back apart as he tries to breathe a little better, and you peel of the glove. Drop it in the trash.

He rolls quickly off the bed, standing on shaking legs and drawing your face up in a lingering kiss. It makes it hard to see what your hands are doing, so you push him gently away.

Conveniently, toward the desk.

Dave’s eyes light up with knowledge, and he pulls you back with him after you grab the lube and stick it through one of your harness belts for safekeeping. Once your hands are on him again, he reaches for his All American Underpants. You pull his hands away, pressing up into a kiss, winding your fingers together.

“No. You dug that grave,” you tell him.

He just makes a face like he’d been hoping for that possible outcome. It’s a face with excitement and a little amusement. A face that’s a little more than happy and a little amazed, mouth half-open with brows drawn slightly upward. “Oh no. Am I gonna have to lie in it?” He coos against the side of your head.

You let your actions answer for you, and keep directing him toward the (suspiciously) clean desk. Not even his laptop is on it. Jesus, he was really hopeful, wasn’t he? How the fuck didn’t you notice this when you walked in?

Right… the ass.

“Or should I say, am I gonna,” he starts, and you nearly put a hand over his mouth. You know where this is going.

“Please don’t,” you ask of him.

“…get fucked in it?” He finishes. Lips moving against the skin of your temple. God.

He really went there. It would be funny if you weren’t so busy trying to focus on keeping it together.

Even as you’re pressing him back into the short edge of the desk, so that he’ll be lain out long ways, you groan with exasperation.

“There are so many things wrong with that, Dave,” you sigh at him. Dave laughs a bit, the laughter turning so quickly to heady gasping as you curve your shorter body into his, cornering him there. Even with your smaller stature.

It’s easy to steal his lips again, and feel that gasping against your mouth instead.

With the knowledge of where he is and what’s about to happen, Dave’s kisses grow in desperation. His tongue finds its clumsy way past your lips, you suck it into your mouth. Those two bars in his tongue don’t even manage to cop any good feels before you’re curling away and turning him around.

Dave’s back is a solid wall of tension and anticipation that gradually unwinds as you run your hands down its length. Like peeling wallpaper he folds down, all straight lines and whispers of curves under your fingertips. The way his muscles move under the surface is something you never get tired of watching.

He stretches his arms out, braces them. Turns back to you, waiting.

You coat the BRFM with lube. A generous amount never hurts, because neither of you particularly enjoy pain from penetration and it’s never too late to play it safe. Hell, Dave’s even used lube to fuck you a few times even if you don’t naturally need it at all. It felt smooth and nice and so so hot and no, no, stop, no. It’s about Dave. You get so damn carried away in your own thoughts. You place the bottle near the wall on the desk.

Here he is, trembling, quiet except for his panting as he waits.

Now that you have both hands for this, you pull the right side of the ass of his briefs up. It goes smoothly, stretches easily, he must have paid God to manufacture these because they’re perfect for this.

Because he knows, he relaxes. And you hold the underwear to the side with your left thumb, line yourself up with your right, and press in.

Dave groans at the initial pressure. It’s more of a show of confirmation and appreciation than anything. You make sure to move slowly, to press in small increments and pause, to kiss his shoulderblades, to smear the flakes of that fake tramp stamp as you massage his tailbone with the fingers of your right hand.

Even though you could just go right in, and slam your hips to his like he probably wants. Dave’s more than open enough. There’s something about the slowness of it, the shortness of his breath, and the anticipation… they make you want to go at a snail’s pace. Besides. Dave really, really likes the deep and cliché intimacy of it. He loves being coddled and he loves affection. Even more than you, possibly.

You’re getting a little distracted again.

He’s a shuddering mess by the time you’re balls-deep. White-knuckled fingers grip the other short edge of the desk, and his thighs are trembling against yours. There’s sweat pooling in the dip of his backbone, and he’s trying so hard to relax all the way. It doesn’t happen for him, necessarily, but you know by now the point at which it’s okay to move.

It’s always when he’s quaking in the legs, and sighs, completely quiet. And then he’ll give you a moan after he’s done adjusting completely. Something about the sensation. It takes some wiggling. There’s pressure from the pad against your clit that’s hard to ignore. There’s an experimental roll of his own hips, he scoots one of his feet back, to brace better.

“Mmmh, yeah,” Dave sighs. “Nice,” he moans, long and pitching up on the end as he experimentally undulates.

And you pull out and press back in.

A slow pace, for now. It always takes him by surprise, that first one. You know this because the sound he makes is just a bit out of breath, just enough to be a curious question.

When you thrust again, he makes a noise to answer the question. Another thrust, harder this time, and you know you’ve done something good when Dave almost shouts. Your fingers grip tight on his hips, and you slam in again. Hopefully the same place. No cigar when there’s no crying out, but he does say your name under his breath. A curse, a bit of praise, you aren’t sure.

Under you, as you fuck him, Dave makes the most wonderful symphony of noises. Coos and groans and moans, getting steadily more and more worked up. Lower in pitch, then higher in pitch. Desperation rising and falling. It works up into a familiar rhythm between you, as he pushes back against you and you into him.

The lewd slap of skin on skin, Dave’s fingers clutching at both everything and nothing.

With the harness positioned the way that it is, you get stimulation as well. It brushes when you draw in, and you shudder bodily. It brushes when you draw out, and you gasp.

You slow down. Wait for him to notice.

Dave, who was just starting to get really into the rhythm, turns his chin to glance back at you. Finally. No mindless fucking today, you’re hoping. Though you could do that forever. Honestly. Just listening to Dave’s voice heat up into a sparking, furious crowd in his mouth.

You pause, fully seated, and he raises an eyebrow. With an experimental roll of your hips, Dave’s body spasms. So that’s where it is. Once he’s got control back, he looks at you again, half-lidded. Those soft lips sit slightly agape, as he breathes.

“Wha?” he asks, breath a sheer wind.

“You want to try something new?” you ask right back.

Dave meets your eyes as your fingers pause over the button on the base of the dildo.

You haven’t used this together before.

It’s got moderately strong vibrations in it. Not too bad, you don’t think, wouldn’t be awful on him.

He looks down at it, eyes suddenly gleaming with anticipation, and nods.

You press the button twice. Medium setting.

The first reaction to the vibrations is Dave’s deep moan, long and drawn out. One of his feet kicks up, and his arms crumble beneath his head.

The second reaction is your own noise, as the vibrations go far enough into the edge of the base that you really feel it.

Wanting to feel even more, barely thinking, you grind down onto the pad. This makes you grind down into Dave.

Who mewls. Dave fucking mewls like an underpaid porn star, and his back arches so hard it sinks you even deeper, lifts your heels off the floor. You withdraw, and he sings as the head of the BRFM sweeps directly across his prostate. The vibrations are more concentrated there, in the head. So man, he’s really feeling it.

“Mmmh, yeah. Yeah, Karkat, right there, right there,” he’s slurring senselessly.

A few good digs into that spot, and he’s sinking into muttered praises and pleas and your name.

The vibrations get enough of your clit that they start to hit that barely-there burning point. Lower body twitching around nothing, you utter some garbled phrases. _God,_ that feels nice. Tight and prickling on thousands of nerve endings, and you slam into Dave again.

“Ah fuck, my dick, fuck,” he’s saying, and you remember. His erection is trapped in the front elastic of the briefs, tight against his belly. It’s probably chafing like hell. Or heaven, depending on what he wants today. He’s obviously too busy holding onto the desk for dear life, so you do him a favor.

The sigh of relief as you reach down to hitch the underwear underneath his balls is a thing of beauty. After that, you can lose a bit of focus. Each push and pull has the vibrations sinking right into your clit, and (hopefully) right up against his prostate.

Your breath is shortening, and you can feel something winding up into your spine. It’s a coil, and it’s begging for freedom. You chase it, leaning over Dave’s back to get a better angle on the vibe.

The new angle nearly makes him scream.

It makes you hesitate. Is he getting too overwhelmed?

“So much, _fuck_ it’s so much, k-keep, haah, keep going,” he rambles hoarsely. It’s a far cry from the moaning from earlier, and you feel him seize up underneath you. Eagerly, you push forward, sitting at the base and rolling your hips, grinding into the vibrator with all the restraint of a teenager who’s just discovered they have exploitable genitals.

Dave is just full of long, drawn-out moans. You reach down carefully, take his hot cock in your fist. He can barely move intelligently, he’s so stimulated. A little dribble of drool is falling down his chin, and he licks the sweat from the corner of his mouth. Undignified, halfway to unhinged. Just from this. Dave is so easy to please.

It’s just a few light strokes later that he starts to tense up. A zigzag of muscles on his back flex, his moans rise abruptly in pitch, and he spills over your hand. With the flexion of Dave’s body under your palms, you breathe out a sigh and relax into your own pleasure. Allowing yourself to sink over the precipice.

The coil springs loose, and your knees shake as you feel yourself clench in lightning ripples. Dave groans as you come, overstimulated but shouldering through.

In a haze, you reach down to turn off the vibrator. It stills, and you slump on top of the open back before you. You know you’ll have to clean the cum off the side of the desk in a bit. It’s hard to care when Dave’s still under you, still regaining his breath. Still twitching around the dick in his ass.

“Mmm. _Good,_ ” he murmurs. You kiss the back of his neck.

“Congratulations on doing well on your exams,” you slur into his spine. Dave giggles wetly.

He’s slouching onto his folded arms, contented and jelly-like draped over the hard top of the desk. His only movement for maybe a minute is to reach up to his mouth and swipe away the spit.

A chuckle from him, at his own state.

“Now go lay down, and I’ll clean you up,” you tell him. It’s hard, but you peel yourself off his skin, and step back. The dildo slides out with a groan and a shudder from Dave, and a very wet noise, and a bit of a pop. You take off the harness with shaking fingers as Dave attempts to get himself upright, straightening the ugly briefs that you’ll be burning later.

He’s protesting even as he winces. “I c’n help,” he tries. And then he has to use the desk for support.

“Shush. Go lay down. I’ll get water,” you say.

Dave crash-lands sprawled on the bed in five uneven steps. “Thought you were gettin’ somethin’ to clean with?”

You, at least, manage to roll your eyes. The harness is dropped on the desk, which you’ll be cleaning anyway. “I can get both at the same time,” you tell him as you pull up your boxers.

Dave grunts something from the bed.

When you get back, two bottles of water and a wet washcloth in hand, Dave is trying to get the underwear off. By trying, of course, you mean he’s playing with the waistband like he has nothing better to do.

After dropping the bottle somewhere near his head, you hook your fingers in the underpants. Once they’re off, you hold them up in front of Dave.

“These? Are getting destroyed.”

He laughs loudly. Well, half-croaks loudly. His voice is blown to shit.

“Then what will I wear on the Fourth of July?” He rasps. You sigh, planting your forehead in his belly.

Dave laughs some more, which dissolves into giggles once he hears what his hoarse laughing sounds like.

“I don’t know, Dave,” you sigh, and wipe up the small, shiny, dried remainders of lube from his ass and legs. Dave always gets really embarrassed when you take care of him like this in return. It seems like the decent thing to do, even if he insists that you don’t have to.

And you’re not quite feeling up to holding his weight in the shower tonight. You’ve done it before, and it was lovely, with him leaning on you and depending on you like that. But you almost slipped and fell. Dave is that much taller. It’s a crime.

He’s sitting up once you’re done. He winces for the umpteenth time, but drinks half the bottle of water before flopping back down again.

After tossing the rag into the clothes bin behind you, you crawl toward him on the bed.

You sit, crossing your legs, facing the separating wall.

Your mouth is half full of water, when Dave opens his mouth next.

“I love you,” he says.

It takes all of your willpower not to choke or spit out the water.

You look over at him. Dave’s giving you that soulful look he only gives once in a while. His eyebrows are wrenched together, and the corner of his mouth is twisted up in the corner.

He… loves you.

“Really?” It shoots out completely without your permission.

Dave nods, slow.

You think back. Everything he’s done, everything he continues to do for you. He stays near you, holds you when you’re lonely, pulls out your splinters and covers the wound. He has that smile, and that way of talking, and he’s always so honest and his hands are _magic_ on your skin.

So while he lies there, naked, and you mostly clothed, he tells you. At his most vulnerable, his most honest. He tells you.

His lips are parted just so, there’s a twinge of a truly magical smile in his eyes. And so much warmth. You feel so safe in that warmth.

You’ve loved him for a long time, you realize.

You’ve just been avoiding thinking about it.

“I…” you start. (love you too)

It doesn’t come out.

_No._

Dave’s expression does something complicated that you can’t follow. But you can tell that it’s slowly shuttering. No. You don’t want that, you have to say something. You have to admit it.

What if you can’t? What if he goes away from you, what if he leaves you, what if he thinks his feelings aren’t returned? More and more of his light is going away.

The water bottle in your hand crinkles. Why can’t you? Why?

Cold spills over your hand as the cap pops off. Dave’s almost fully closed off, like it’s happening with every passing second. Like every single millisecond that you don’t answer, he completely loses faith.

It’s gonna be like the last time someone told you. You’re not gonna be able to answer, just like the last relationship you had. Even though you love him. You’re gonna say nothing, and he’s going to go because you fucked up. Again.

For Dave you need to, for Dave you have to. You must.

Your eyes burn.

Your chest hurts.

Dave’s face opens back up. But it’s not the love from before. It’s concern. And when you drop the bottle off the side of the bed and cover your eyes, they’re hot with tears. Fuck.

And there’s gonna be a huge wet spot on his carpet. Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” You hear him hiss absently as he sits up, and moves closer to you.

There’s more sheet rustling. For propriety, you guess, he must be covering his lower half.

“O-of,” you stumble, nose already clogging up. You curl into a ball, there, sitting on his bed. Dave still puts an arm around you.

“Karkat? I’m sorry, please tell me what’s wrong,” he begs. Like it’s his fault. But it’s not, it’s all yours. Your fault that you’re bad at feelings and you’re bad at talking about them and you can’t even admit. Can’t even admit anything.

It’s been like this for so long, but it hasn’t yet come up. You haven’t had to show outright that you feel quite that much yet. Did he not tell you for so long because you’re cold on the outside? Even still?

“Of _c-course_ I l-lo… you, d-d-dipshit,” you manage. It’s hard when your hands are too busy smearing tears away from your face. You did it. You did it, and he’s still here. But you still fucked up.

But… Dave _accepts_ the answer.

Dave’s voice is so light when he tightens his arm around you. “Oh? You do?”

“Yeah, I’m s-so s-sorry, I’m sorry,” you snuffle. A huge, ugly sniff, and then your hands are being pried away.

Dave is smiling, now. That same smile. Full of warmth and love and you’re so glad you were able to reciprocate, even if only a little, verbally. To see this.

To see his eyes open in something you only expected to see at the gates of heaven.

His hands grip yours, so tight. You haven’t stopped crying, but he kisses you anyway.

“You love me too?” He asks.

“Yeah,” you reply, softly. “I do.”

Dave’s smiling so _wide._

“As if I could do anything else except love you, at this point,” you say. And it’s still couched in words and smothered in abstraction but Dave takes it, anyway. He takes it right from your lips.

He takes it right to the bank.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!!! hope everyone liked this chapter, next one will be a bit longer tho im honestly working on it but work is really testing me right now! haha idefc that karkat is weirdly ooc in the beginning of this chapter
> 
> i edited this while i was rly tired to feel free to let me know if u see anything glaringly wrong, and yeah! i love u all and i hope you have a wonderful week! <3


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet The Parents

The day after you officially get your promotion is the day your father calls you on the phone while you’re at a café with Dave and the lovely newlyweds just returned from their long honeymoon in Italy.

Coincidentally, it’s also the day your father finds out about your promotion.

As a wonderful, loving and sometimes grossly concerned father, he also gets irate about not having been told the good news sooner.

He also tells you that you _must_ come to dinner on Saturday to celebrate, if you have it off.

“Your brother will be out of town that day, so he’ll miss it. I assure you I won’t even try to cook. I’ll have something ordered and pick it up on the way home from the grocery store,” he’s saying, all soft inflections. He must be at work, trying to keep the volume down in his cubicle.

Rose and Kanaya are sitting across the table from you, looking as interested in your conversation as they can while simultaneously only having eyes for each other.

Dave is tapping his extra straw on the wooden tabletop next to his drink. Careful and metered taps. He echoes those taps on the top of your hand, with his left index finger. It’s soothing.

You suddenly feel like you need it.

When he sees you looking up at him, Dave leans over straight-faced and gives you a light little peck on the temple. Warm. More comforting.

His lips linger for a second longer than he usually does, and he delivers another kiss to your cheek before going back to his tapping.

The table is silent for your phone call.

Now, about needing the stress relief.

It’s not like your relationship with your father is bad to any degree.

It’s actually quite good.

But Dad… he was so concerned when you didn’t shoot for something higher, given your grades in school. You got a full ride to a nearby university with a good program for what you wanted to do. And Dad was so supportive of you following your passions, so why not?

So you got a degree in literature, and didn’t do enough with it.

And despite being so proud that you went ahead and got a degree, right out of high school, you could tell that Dad was disappointed that you didn’t do more. But he congratulated you, and threw you a party, and helped you with contacts and writing a pretty killer cover letter for some jobs. You didn’t get any, because it was the wrong hiring season. And now you’re working at a grocery store.

He was a janitor for quite a few years, at a nice school district. It definitely paid the bills until he could get more education and get the office job he works in now. It’s a tiny cubicle, plastered with pictures of his cats and you and your brother and your late grandparents. But he has a potted plant. And he has an ergonomic backrest and a nice chair. And he makes pretty good money, and he loves it.

He just wanted better for you.

And you couldn’t do as well as he hoped.

Your guilt feels raw, immature, gross, biting. Even if he’s anything but.

“You should bring that Dave boy with you too, it’s a crime I haven’t met him yet,” Dad says, and you can hear the tapping of his keyboard. Soft tones, soft tapping.

“You’ve just always been busy when we’re both free, I think,” you say, trailing off. It’s only half true. Your father lives maybe an hour or two away, now, not in your childhood home. And schedules don’t always permit for frequent visits.

But…

You’d also been avoiding bringing Dave home. You don’t really bring guys home to meet the family. But Dave’s not just a guy. He’s… Dave.

“Yes, well, you also don’t like to introduce your boyfriends to me. For whatever reason, none of my business most likely,” your father says. He doesn’t have to, you know. But he’s very polite.

“You’re very overprotective,” you tell him. Also only partly true.

He, of course, starts to deny it.

Dave’s leaning on his other hand now, looking directly at you. A signal to free him from the lovely lesbians across the table.

Even as you’re saying your goodbyes, your mind is flickering with your father’s disappointment.

He’s so proud of your accomplishments as they are. Dave’s thumb traces a circle around the knob of your middle finger’s knuckle as you let yourself sink into very possibly one of the most pathetic downward spirals. While keeping an amazingly good façade, of course. Hopefully.

You used to strive to be better, to compete, to thwart opinions of you and kick ass and take names. What are you doing now?

 

* * *

 

You’re irritated, and Dave is being insufferably monosyllabic.

“So they said that the results.”

“Mm.”

“Of the interview process.”

“Hm.”

“For the job you applied to months ago.”

“Mhm.”

“Were taking a lot of time.”

“Yep.”

“And it might be another couple of weeks,” you conclude.

“Affirmative,” Dave replies, unbuckling his seatbelt and opening the car door.

Despite this news, he’s still grinning.

Well whatever, you’ll be mad for him.

“Eh, cupcake, don’t get so angry. They hit a hiccup in the process,” Dave soothes, even as he’s leaning over the top of your car door.

Once you’re out of the car, you close the door, lock the old thing, and then cross your arms.

Dave is still grinning as you stand there, shoulders squared, to stare at him.

“Yeah, well, it’s still stressing you out. So I’m still going to be mad! I know you don’t need this job for anything except experience, but still. You’re going to be rushing to prepare for the school year,” you argue, frowning.

Dave bends at the waist to give you a peck on the nose.

He seems entirely too happy. He’d talked to his professor contact earlier in the day, in person, and had coffee with them. Just because he wanted to make sure things were on track, and that he didn’t need to be looking elsewhere.

“What?” you ask, a frown finding your brow.

“They also said that I might be a good candidate for another job that recently had an opening. A curatorial job,” he explains, and your eyes nearly pop out of your skull.

“What?! That’s so exciting, why didn’t you tell me!” you shove at his shoulder lightly, and dave rubs at it like it actually hurt.

While he busies himself with faking a wounded expression, you keep barreling through. “That’s what you wanted to do in the end, right?” you ask.

Dave grins widely at you. Flips his sunglasses down onto his nose.

“Cause I just found out today. And tonight is about you. And I love you. And I wanna celebrate this promotion official-like.”

Warmth suffuses into your chest and gut. The tips of your fingers tingle, and you bounce on your toes. You’re so happy to see him feeling so accomplished and satisfied. It’d be his dream if he got that job. A quiet place to work, maintaining the things he loves, taking great care to take care of these artifacts and items and files and it would be something he’d be so safe in.

“You too, knucklehead,” you say, and Dave’s shoulders just melt.

Dave looks so incandescently happy in this moment.

He bends to kiss you again, long fingers cradling your jaw.

“Are you two planning on coming inside anytime soon? Or will we be having dinner on the lawn?” a voice rings out from the house.

You jump, knocking your forehead into Dave’s.

He’s wincing and rubbing the skin of his face as you turn, and take a surprised and defensive half-step toward the house.

There’s a chuckle as your father’s head disappears behind the doorframe.

“By all means take your time!” your father calls out again, and you sigh. You reach back for Dave’s hand, and pull him along.

He goes, loping along as usual and into your father’s home.

When you get inside, you lock the door and greet the cats that waddle up to you in the small foyer.

“It’s a shoes-off house,” you explain briefly, and Dave follows your lead in removing footwear.

It’s not the house you grew up in.

Your father sold that house, and moved into a smaller one in an older neighborhood. It’s a small place, two bedrooms, one bathroom, a combo kitchen and dining room, and a den. It’s cozy, all old furniture and threadbare rugs on the wood floors. Newer appliances, new hinges and cabinets and electrical, old windows.

There’s a rustling of plastic and the clinking of a few plates coming from the kitchen, so you head that way. Dad will want to give the official tour, later.

Dave yelps a few times trying to step around the cats that can’t seem to stop twisting around his ankles.

As you pass into the kitchen, you can see through the windows into the backyard. Lots of bird feeders, scrubby and weedy grass that still shows like it’s being at least mowed and cared for, and the path that comes around back from the one-car garage.

“Karkat!” your father exclaims, and before you know it you’re being wrapped in a hug. Same skin tone, same wild black hair, same nose, and same eyebrows. But he’s about a foot taller than your shorter stature.

He pulls back, and there are bags under his eyes. His laugh lines are a mile long, and he holds your shoulders at arm’s length and looks you up and down with a frown.

“Have you been eating enough?” he asks. “Please tell me this boy is feeding you.”

He makes something like a smirk, and you snort and roll your eyes. The joke isn’t an old one, but it’s one he likes to make, for whatever reason. Even if sometimes he means it. He would try to work extra hours to pay for your groceries back when you moved out.

“Of course I’m eating enough. I can feed myself, you know that. Especially now,” you reply. A little defensive, a little acidic, a _lot_ fond.

And Dad does the closest thing he can to a beaming smile. Not that he doesn’t smile often, but he’s got a… fairly stern face. Like you.

“Right! Promotion! I’ll get the food out in a second. But first,” he says, and lets you go.

Your father squares himself up, and faces Dave. And he holds out his hand.

And Dave looks so apprehensive about meeting him.

Your father could have been a monstrous crab beast for all that Dave’s looking at his hand like it’ll snap his fingers off. That’s a bit of an exaggeration, but you do know that Dave has been working himself up about meeting your family.

There’s fear there, and hope, and mistrust. Father figures are a touchy area for him, obviously.

And as he reaches out, and firmly fist bumps your father’s waiting handshake, you want to strangle him.

“Hey there pops, nice to meetcha,” he says. With the stupidest grin perking _just_ the corner of his lips. Like he just told the most hilarious joke. Like if it weren’t someone he didn’t know, he’d be chortling by now.

It takes him a minute of standing in shock, but your father decides to bump the fist in return. “Next time, go for the handshake, son.”

And despite the laughter, you feel the underlying reprimand stronger than ever.

Dave straightens. “Yes, sir,” he says.

Your father nods, and turns back to the bag of to-go food. He doesn’t question the indoor shades at all. You were half-expecting him to ask Dave to remove them. “You two sit, I’ll get some plates. I hope everyone’s alright with chicken parmesan.”

It smells delicious, despite the fact that it’s clearly in an Olive Garden to-go bag. Whatever. Free dinner. And your father bought it for you. He’s completely talentless when it comes to the kitchen despite his best efforts, and he very obviously wants to impress your boyfriend with a good dinner.

Dave, when you turn behind you, is looking at family photos on the china cabinet.

Walking over to him, you hear him softly cooing over photos of you. His back is warm under your palm as you touch him to get his attention, and he startles briefly before looking up at you with something akin to adoration in what you can see of his eyes. And a no small amount of glee.

“Karkat, Christ, you were a cute kid,” he states, holding up a photo for your inspection. You know the one. Kindergarten, soccer uniform. Kankri is kneeling next to you in his junior coaching uniform, smiling. He doesn’t smile for many photos, and you really like this one for that reason. “Look at your lil chubby cheeks!” Dave continues, poking the glass with one finger.

You frown up at him. It’s not… that cute. And he’s clearly overreacting.

There aren’t any photos here that show your birth gender. Those are in an album, and your father made sure you were okay with him keeping them. They’re very private, he knows, and you don’t look at them.

But… there’s importance in memories. And your father loves all of the pictures of his children, so much.

You don’t mind.

There aren’t any photos here with your mother, either.

Let’s keep it short: your mother isn’t around. At all. She was abusive to your father, your brother, and yourself after you decided that you didn’t want to be what you were assigned when you came screaming out of the giant gaping c-section maw of life. And, honestly, you decided you never _had_ wanted it. When she didn’t change, she was out. Simple as that.

Well, not simple, but you don’t really remember too well. It was a couple of years before your father worked up the gall to tell her to leave, and got the divorce. He had an amazing friend in Terezi’s mother, and got a steep discount for her services to help him keep you and Kankri as sons. He splurged a lot of money in getting your documentation changed for your name a couple of years later. And then when it became legal, he got Terezi’s mother to also help you get your birth certificate changed.

Some of it was in defiance of your mother, and you don’t have a problem with that. You know your father wants you to be happy and safe. And identification under the law is one thing he knows.

“Don’t frown at me lol,” Dave says, and then actually laughs.

“Did you just—“

“The soccer ball is half your size, it’s so cute!” he continues, talking over your question.

You almost frown at him again, but he’s wearing that rare expression that means he knows he’s done something that he hopes will make you laugh. Sometimes when he does this, he knows that you’ll find humor in the simple fact that he’s trying to make you laugh. Like he ‘accidentally’ used an acronym in a sentence. Or when he ‘accidentally’ draws a cat that looks like a dick on a note he then sticks in your pocket. Or when he ‘accidentally’ trips over his own pajama pants so that he can bump into you, and then he just ‘happens’ to want to kiss you.

Christ alive, you’ve been together for half a year and he’s still doing this shit.

What a dork.

You stick your tongue out at him, and he leans down and kisses it.

Your tongue.

He kisses your tongue.

Mildly disgusted, you reel back with a bit of a chocked laugh, and Dave is doing that thing again with his face. It makes you laugh for real.

“Come on, kids, it’s time for eating food, not… eating face,” your dad gently scolds from where he’s pouring a bit of wine into the glasses on the table. The food is all set out, even in that short amount of time, and your father’s hands are just steady on the bottle. “That is something you kids say, right? Eating face?”

Dave responds “Yes,” very eagerly, just as you say “No.”

Your dad looks close to giggles as Dave takes one look at you and bursts out a laugh.

Almost stomping, you make your way over to ‘your’ chair, to sit down.

Your father directs Dave to sit across from you, and he sits at the head of the table. The seat Dave is in is the seat usually occupied by Kankri. Where is he, again? He’s still an asshole and often has the entirely wrong idea about how exactly to be… politically correct isn’t the right word. Long explanation shortened, a lot of the things that come out of his mouth end up being rude even through his profuse attempts to… not be. But you love him anyway. He’s trying, yknow? And getting better.

“I hope wine is alright, boys, I thought it was appropriate with Italian food. If not, there’s water and juice in the fridge,” he says while spooning salad onto plates.

It’s salad and breadsticks, chicken parmesan on a bed of spaghetti. Simple.

It’s almost difficult to see Dave past the giraffe sculpture in the center of the table.

The table is fairly small, built to seat six, an antique from your late grandmother’s house made of cherry. The rug under your toes is fraying slightly with the heavy feet of the chairs.

It’s silent for a bit while the three of you get into the meal, and you watch as Dave glances distractedly around the house.

You know that he’ll be seeing the potted plants and looking back at the photos. He’ll be seeing more animal sculptures, a few scattered religious artifacts from your father’s past, and counting the number of rugs on the floor.

“So, Dave,” your dad introduces into the silence. You’ve had time to finish your salad and half of your chicken by this point.

Dave makes a muffled noise through his closed mouth, very obviously focusing on chewing and swallowing before he has to say anything of substance.

“What are your future plans?” he asks, and Dave flushes from chin to hairline.

The tone of the room changes, and you suddenly feel like you’re waiting for suitors to pass a test. The difference being that there’s only one suitor. And you’re… fairly certain that your father isn’t going to be rude to Dave at all if he doesn’t meet expectations.

Dave finishes swallowing and takes a sip of his wine to wash it down before he starts into distractedly cutting another bite. You watch his face go from his carefully blank confusion and straight into satisfaction as he remembers the possibility from earlier in the day.

“Actually, I would love to be a curator once I finish my degree,” he says with a smile at his plate.

Your father doesn’t take any offense to not being met in the eye, and makes an interested noise.

“That’s right, my son was saying that you’re in school but didn’t mention what for,” he murmurs, and takes a thoughtful sip of his wine.

Dave looks mildly perturbed and you touch your toes to his under the table. The look, and the remaining tension, disappear to make way for a more relaxed set of his shoulders.

“Archaeology, sir,” Dave says, and you watch him glance up and give a short but sincere grin before looking back down.

“Well that’s just fascinating. I’m sure you’re loving it, and I hope you’ll be having a great time on your way to graduating,” your father says mildly.

He’s very… mild. Just normally. It’s remarkable, seeing how you and Kankri turned out. Though… you’ve chilled out, as well. Quite a bit. And then Dave has helped that along as well.

Yes, you fight, yes, you tend to be uptight when it comes to your views, yes, you have what Jade claims is “an incredible amount of road rage,” yes, you’re incredibly passionate about caring for your friends whenever you can. But Dave makes you… calmer when you’re with him. It’s not a bad thing at all.

The rest of the dinner conversation consists of Dave making small talk with your dad about his work, your dad asking about your work and Dave’s classes and how exactly you got the promotion, and then a short conversation about Jade and how she’s doing right now. ‘Because I adore that girl, Karkat, she had a lot of lofty dreams and she is also coincidentally very kind and you know she’s given the cats checkups for free.’

Once the food is gone, Dad insists on leaving the dishes for after dessert and giving Dave a short walking tour of the house. And then you insist on doing the dishes while he shows your boyfriend around. And before either of you can bristle, Dave says that you would probably love to not have to be shown everything in his house for the umpteenth time.

At that, your father caves and directs you to where he keeps the soap, nowadays, and then lets Dave follow him out of the room and toward another hallway, which will also be full of pictures.

You wash up the kitchen as much as you can, and are getting back inside from taking out the trash when they come back into the room. Dave looks like he actually enjoyed himself, to your surprise. Dad is grinning just barely while he sets one of his cats down on the floor.

“And then he just stomped on the teacher’s foot, and ran away!” your father says, obviously the finish to a story. Dave bursts into a fit of laughter. He looks up, sees your face, and laughs again.

“My God you were such a pistol as a kid, holy shit,” Dave says. He’s pushed his shades up to the top of his face, and it… amazes you. They’re getting along that well already.

“If that’s the story I’m thinking of, she deserved the broken toe,” you defend, and Dave laughs harder. “What?! She didn’t want me to sit with a table of boys and instead wanted me to sit by myself because there weren’t any girls’ tables left. And apparently age 8 isn’t an appropriate age for co-ed seating. Who I am is irrelevant at this point, really, she was just being a jerk to kids. Sexualizing children.”

Dave sobers a bit, and walks over to pat your shoulder. “What a warrior,” he says, and kisses your forehead. He’s teasing you about your passion, but you know it’s something he likes about you. He’s told you quite a few times by now.

“Ah, fuck off, Dave,” you snort, “I was right and you know it.”

“Yeah you were,” he murmurs into your skin.

Your Dad isn’t quite smiling anymore, but his expression is content when he pushes sternly through you two to grab the big plate from the top shelf.

“We’ll use this and napkins for dessert. Less to wash that way,” he says.

You look at the table, and there’s a box sitting on it. It’s a cake box.

Your eyes burn a little and your throat hurts. “Oh Dad, you didn’t have to,” you say, and when you reach him with your gaze, he’s got a no-refusals look on his face.

“I decided you needed a more official congratulations so I splurged on some cupcakes as well,” he says, and you…

God.

He’s so proud of you.

When he takes the cakes out of the box and sets them on the plate, you see that they’re just chocolate with maroon frosting. But they have little sugar-spun placards on them that read, ‘Congrats, son.’

It’s almost too much, and you almost lose your cool right there.

“They’re chocolate, with some raspberry filling. And a black cherry chocolate icing,” he says, and sits down.

Dave eagerly sits, and draws one of the cakes toward himself on a napkin.

“Come on, eat your cake,” Dad tells you, before doing the same.

The floor is a little wobbly under your feet as you walk over to the table.

“I didn’t have such a well-paying job at your age, son, and it’s a great accomplishment for you,” he says as you sit.

Dave touches your hand across the table.

You look up, and he’s smiling at you.

You look over at your father, and he’s giving you a small smile.

He nods.

A hot tear drops down your face.

You were so… worried. For nothing.

He’s so _proud_ of you.

“Thanks, Dad,” you say, and sniff the rest of your tears away.

“No reason to thank me, though I appreciate the gesture. Now eat your cake. It’s your favorite,” he says, and pushes a fork toward your hand on the table.

Dave doesn’t draw his fingers back to his own dessert until you take a bite out of the sugar decoration.

Conversation falls easily into place, more stories about you.

It feels good to not say anything at all.

 

* * *

 

On your way out the door and into the muggy night, your father wraps you in such a firm hug that you feel your ribs might break.

“Don’t be a stranger, son. And good job on that one. He’s good for you.”

“I know, Dad,” you reply, and squeeze him back.

Dave moves forward, shakes his hand this time, and says goodbye as well. And then you’re both in the car and the front door is closing.

It’s hot tonight, the crickets buzzing and cicadas screaming from the trees.

The air pumps out of your car vents like it’s trying to cool off the whole world, instead of just this small pocket of space.

You glance over at Dave.

He always looks so folded in your car, and he never bothers to move the seat back to make things easier for himself.

Oddly, though, he seems comfortable and relaxed. His knees bump against the glovebox but he doesn’t seem to care. His chin is tilted slightly back in the silence, a drop of sweat trying to make its way down his throat. The silhouette of him against the streetlight is something to behold.

“You should move in with me,” he says.

It takes you a full ten seconds, count them out in your head. Slowly, surely, constantly moving forward, those seconds.

Dave is looking at the ceiling of your car, as if nervous in the face of your reply.

His neck tenses obviously, and his jaw tightens with each passing moment.

As if needing to fill the silence you’ve left, he begins to ramble.

“You already practically live there anyway,” he says, “And I kinda wanna see you all the time. I wanna know what your morning scowl looks like on Christmas, I wanna know how you would cruelly rearrange our kitchen even though it would make John mad, I want you to fold my shirts in the stupidly efficient way you do, and I wanna know just what habits you have for every Thursday at five pm. I mean John already said yes, he half thought you had already moved in a long time ago with how often you’re there.”

All of this said, and you can’t utter a word. You find your body just… blooming with love.

When Dave finally looks over at you, his eyes are still a little anxious in the light of your silence. Barely red, gleaming in the night.

“I’ve never asked anyone this before. Am I doing as bad of a job as it feels right now?” he asks.

“Yes, it’s awful,” you reply, jaw hurting with the force of your smile.

Dave gets that exasperated look that he gets when he knows you’re taking the piss out of him.

“Yes or no,” he says. It’s a statement, a command, not a question.

“Yes,” you say, and he lights up. “What else am I supposed to do with this ugly old house key?”

Dave positively shines.

His entire body loosens all at once, his knees knocking into the dashboard and his elbows awkwardly punching into the upholstery. He reaches out to thumb over your mouth.

His hand is warm on your face. Warmer than the hot air in the car, but not… unpleasant. Strangely.

“I dunno. Toss it in the creek, maybe?” he jokes.

“I’ll do you one better. I’ll give it to a random guy on the street,” you say, pushing a kiss into his thumb.

“Ooh yeah. Then he can come into my house and take all my shit,” Dave coos, wistfully.

“That’s the goal, how else will there be room for my stuff?” you ask.

“So you need to talk to your landlord then. And transfer your half of that lease,” Dave says.

“Yep,” you confirm, already leaning forward to meet him in the middle.

Your heart is racing, jumping, excited.

“I love you,” he murmurs. Traces your jaw and chin, the wiry hairs just in front of your ear.

“I love you, too,” you reply.

Dave’s eyes light up, and he looks a little surprised.

You’re surprised as well.

It came out so easily this time.

It’s been almost three weeks since your first… attempt. And Dave hasn’t minded at all. Just kept saying it.

How was it so easy?

Not that it really matters, but…

Dave’s hands shoot out, and he’s gripping your jaw so hard you’re worried about his nails scratching.

Well, not really worried. But his eyes looks so, he’s so, he’s smiling so hard his eyes are shining in the darkness of the car.

It meant that much to him.

His lips touch yours, and he’s bent over the gearshift in what must be extreme discomfort. But he’s yanking you forward into your seatbelt. You can’t find yourself caring.

“I love you,” he says, against your lips. It’s like a request, a beckoning.

“I love you too,” you reply. _A second time._

__It’s even easier this time._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all i've missed you and i hope you're doing well!
> 
> disclaimer: it's not yet legal to get your birth certificate changed gender-wise in the state of texas without SRS. so! this is officially Ambiguous AU Texas, because i had a story goal to meet and i did that Lazy Author Thing
> 
> haha
> 
> i hope everyone has a wonderful evening, and your plans succeed! and happy late coming out day! even if youre not out, like me, it's ok! you're not alone and i hope you have your peace <3 <3 <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some snapshots of a dnd session, a very cute and sweaty zoo date, and an unfortunate phone call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my apologies for what im aboutta do to yall!

It’s nearing the end of June, now.

Summer is well under way.

You’ve been slowly packing your less-used things, planning on moving out entirely when the lease is officially up in a few weeks. Sollux took the news incredibly well, and so did John, and so did everyone else. Not that it matters what anyone but you and Dave think.

Well.

Okay, so John _will_ still be living there. That’s a thing.

A few boxes and your winter clothes were already taken over there, and you’re planning on moving just a bit at a time until the actual date you’ve planned for. That way, you can fit everything else in the bed of Jade’s cousin’s truck on the actual date.

Dave’s already got a big enough bed, and a dresser and tables and things, so you’re leaving Sollux with all of your other furniture including your rickety cheap bedframe. The dresser you’re bringing, though, as both you and Dave have clothes. You’re glad for not having any inherited furniture. That would be annoying to store.

Dave is on break and just recently started his curatorial internship.

He claims that it’s mostly paperwork, right now. Until he learns the ropes and gets more experience, he’s saddled with grunt work. It was very last minute, and spur of the moment on their part, but it seems like Dave is getting along with them well.

Funnily enough, Dave got the job at a local natural history museum. He’s very interested in the dinosaur bones and the ancient artifacts, the small items that need to be dusted with special materials or not at all. The glass cases need to be washed, the few paintings need to be handled, and you can tell that Dave is excited about it.

These small, quiet things, these preservations of time.

His eyes light up every time he mentions being allowed to sort old documents.

It’s so amazing.

“Alright Dave, time to put your work away in favor of the _actually_ important things. Like this game,” Vriska is lamenting him.

Dave tenses beside you, his hand going rigid on your thigh.

Dave’s DnD group is starting back up, and yours is still on hold while Aradia is in Chile. Studying skulls or… something. So they offered to let you join, if you like. They say that they’ll only be playing occasionally, with Rose’s job as an author taking up a lot of her creative energy.

She’s the DM, after all.

With you at the table, they have a pretty full group.

Gamzee apparently decided to fuck off to God only knows where months ago, so there was plenty of room for you. With Vriska, Dave, John, Sollux, You, and Jade fucking Harley.

And so far, it’s been a blast.

Meaning that Vriska decided to use wild magic and fireball you all into oblivion before today’s session even really fucking started.

Dave told you before today that they really only keep her around because she’s wickedly good at roleplay in a pinch. And because she knows Terezi. Who is extremely cool according to herself, (And Dave), a judgement only to oppose at the cost of your own dignity.

You can see why Vriska is kept around.

It was refreshing fighting two extremely basic monsters and then having everyone get practically incinerated down to single digits of hit points.

“Shut the fuck up if you please,” you tell Vriska, resigned.

She definitely doesn’t do that, and proceeds to open her mouth with a sneer. “You’re just defending him because he’ll suck your dick for it,” she taunts, tapping her d20 on the table.

You scowl, and are working up a heated reply when Rose speaks up.

“Oh _no_ ,” she says lazily, “You hear a rumble, and rocks fall from the ceiling to crush all party members within ten feet of Vriska’s sorcerer. Make a dexterity check.”

Vriska’s head whips around to Rose, and she rolls.

She fails.

Funnily enough, everyone else succeeds.

Vriska’s sorcerer is crushed by a boulder.

Jade claps and whoops with John, who’s snorting into his hand.

Dave is laughing, too. Quietly, soft chuckles that work into a few actual laughs there on the end.

His hand smoothes out on your leg, thumb caressing up and down, fingers briefly flexing.

You’ve got both hands busy, so you can’t squeeze his. But you lean over and give him a kiss on the bottom of his chin. He sighs, just barely relaxing, and goes back to messing with his dice on the table.

Vriska says something negative about PDA, and how she and her girlfriend are _never_ this gross in front of others.

“Do we want rocks again?” Rose asks.

“I’m not healing you if you get crushed by rocks a second time, VK,” Sollux lisps.

She goes quiet after that.

The doorbell rings, signaling the arrival of the two pizzas you all pitched in to order.

 

* * *

 

You and Dave’s characters have upgraded to “friends with benefits” after their… chance encounter. Their alignments wouldn’t really work out in a relationship. Dave was a little disappointed.

Yeah, you’re being _that_ couple.

It’s… refreshing, actually.

Warm.

You and Dave have wandered off with Sollux’s character, and are chatting up a barmaid for information about local cult activity.

And it just so happens that there are cult members in the room.

Sollux has a handy teleportation spell, and just ollies outie.

And that leaves you and Dave to… make a distraction.

“I roll to seduce the bard,” you say, slapping your hand on the table. “To distract the cultists from caring about us.”

Rose looks incredibly amused, Jade and John laugh and whoop at the turn of events, Dave turns red, and Vriska and Sollux groan.

“Oh c’mon, I was trying to forget that embarrassing series of events,” Dave says, hands dragging down over his face. “I’m so uncool.”

“It got you laid eventually, didn’t it?” John teases, and holds out a hand for Rose to primly high-five.

Jade cheers harder.

This time, you’re the one seducing Dave.

And you can feel the devilish grin on your face.

And, somehow, you roll a critical.

Dave looks like he wants to melt into his chair, and you turn your grin to him.

“Ah fuck, you guys are annoying,” Sollux complains through a mouthful of pizza.

“How many times have I caught you with dickprince on the couch?” you ask him, a little bit of a familiar scowl finding your lips.

“Doesn’t change anything I’ve said,” Sollux retorts, taking another bite.

Vriska is glaring so hard at you. Can’t say anything, for risk of more… falling somethings. You’re sure Rose would figure something out.

“Alright, Karkat, overwhelming success. If you describe anything, keep it short and sweet for me. We still have a dragon to fight tonight,” Rose says, turning her face down to her book and flipping a page.

You crack your knuckles, feeling very proud of yourself.

“Alright. I shout to the tavern, loudly, about how attractive he is and how much I would like to bed him,” you begin, and Dave slumps to the table, forehead thumping noisily against the wooden surface. His skin could burn through the tabletop.

Dave’s hand twists on your thigh, still contentedly rubbing up and down with his thumb. Little jitters from his distraction, but not much more. He’s… fine with it. Not too embarrassed, not too much on your end.

But.

After a moment of thought and laughter from Jade and John, you relax back into your chair.

“I take him from the restaurant, willingly, because he totally falls for my loud yelling and pride, and we escape the cultists that way,” you finish.

Jade and John look mildly disappointed, but cheer anyway. Vriska looks relieved and Sollux looks irritated to have expected more and gotten less bad than he thought. Rose snorts, and asks the next set of people what they’re doing in town.

Once the story moves on, however, and Dave sits up with a questioning eye on you, you let the grin return to your face. He eyes you warily as you lean in, putting your mouth near his ear.

“I go down on the bard, tease him for _ages_ until he finishes, dragon fangs and all.” you murmur, just barely inaudible to the whole table.

The heat from Dave’s face is registering even from the scant few inches away that you are.

You snap your teeth, and you can practically feel him prickle behind his sunglasses as your incisors click so near his ear. Dave huffs out a breath, and shifts in his seat, and you place your hand carefully on his thigh. He shifts again.

After you draw away, you hear him huff out another breath, and look over at you.

You don’t try to wink, because you get the feeling it won’t succeed. Last time you tried, you accidentally blinked with both eyes instead.

Dave gives you a look like it’s really not appropriate right now, but you should expect something when you get home.

You relax back into your chair, and shove half a slice of pizza into your mouth.

You text Sollux to get lost for the night.

He sighs so firmly that half of the characters on the table topple.

ii am 2o glad that youll bee gone 2oon

EAT ME

you’ve got that covered ii think

You think it’s innuendo.

Until he lets your character get eaten by a plant monster.

 

* * *

 

When you get to your place, Dave only waits for you to lock the door before pressing you back against it, removing your pants, and taking _himself_ down to his knees.

He throws your right leg over his shoulder and squeezes himself tight to you until you’re shaking apart around his face.

Dave’s hair is nearly faded back to its original white, lately, and it contrasts beautifully with the skin of your hands, fisted in his locks. You come undone with quivering knees and head tossed back, bearing down on his tongue.

He looks so satisfied with himself that you can’t help but let him do it again.

This time on a bed, preferably.

The dragon teeth can wait.

 

* * *

 

The following weekend, you have a double date with Nepeta and Terezi.

Weird, right?

It was going to be Rose and Kanaya, but Rose took one look at the forecast and backed out. She said something about not even wanting to be miserable in the heat to see the bats or the large cats.

Why a double date? Because there was a special on groups of four or more getting in at a discount. It’s as simple as that. And Rose and Kanaya would have been very good sightseeing partners. Unfortunately, you’d already bought the tickets at the discounted rate when Rose decided to back out.

At the time, you didn’t quite understand her petty disagreement with the weather.

Now, though. You do.

Maybe it’s just Nepeta making everything about the situation eight times more Extra than it needs to be.

But at least Terezi seems to be having a gay old time.

It’s very hot.

You’re sweating through your binder and the tank top and shorts you’d chosen to wear over it.

Dave is barely sweating, even if you know he’s probably also miserable.

But it’s a fun date.

Nepeta is remarkably cool around Terezi, even when she has to help lead her around dark areas instead of staring at cats. Terezi being legally blind and on the way to more, of course. She has a degenerative disease, something genetic. And she’s learning braille, trying to work out using her cane more often, getting on very well for herself. She’s accepting it very well for the most part.

There were a few days of unwise decisions, you’ve heard.

But Terezi is anything if not the type to shoulder on and move through a problem.

“Hey, babe, c’mere!” he calls, again, waving his bare arm in a wide circle over his head.

All day, he’s been taking photos of you both. It’s a lot of fun, you guess, even if your face doesn’t look the best in your opinion. But you can’t help but watch him smile, and let him do as he pleases. Even if half of the pictures are in front of stupid shit.

Your phone gets an unsurprising lack of use, and Dave gets a whole other 237 images in a new album.

Dave takes a picture of you both in front of two mating tortoises. That one’s funny, but otherwise fairly inexplicable.

“This one looks a little like you, babe,” he says, as he takes a photo of you with your arms crossed in front of the meerkats.

“Awww and this one’s as cute as you, babe,” he says, as he takes several photos of you with a baby elephant crowding the fence behind you.

“Oh shit and these ones are just as graceful and they have cool horns like you,” he says, snapping a pic of both of you next to a gazelle with its mouth stuffed with grass.

“I don’t have horns, Dave,” you tell him, and he gives you a quick peck to the nose.

“Yeah, and if you did, they would be short. And stumpy. Just like you,” Dave says.

He gets a smack on the shoulder and an exasperated frown for his trouble.

Dave takes a picture of you yawning at the same time as a lion, and puts it on snapchat, with a ton of very silly emojis. He also sets it as his phone background.

“I’m gonna show it to literally everyone. So they can think you’re just as cute as I do,” he says. And holds his phone away from your reaching hands.

You don’t try very hard to get the phone away from him, really.

There’s a parrot exhibit, and it’s just a massive, tented structure full of small parrots that fly around a lot.

It’s either the colors you’re wearing, or the fact that you used Dave’s apple blossom body wash this morning. Or something else entirely. You’re not a fucking scientist. But you turn out to be a parakeet magnet. They cover you ridiculously, big ones and small ones and ones with two different wings. They perch on your shoulders with their taloned feet and flutter around your head.

Dave takes about a billion photos of you like this.

They look very… surreal. And celestial.

Dave moans about not having a nicer camera on his way out of the dome.

Terezi and Nepeta are waiting for the two of you when you get out. Nepeta is standing and watching, looking somewhat fond and also eager to join, while Terezi kneels over a large lizard sculpture like it’s a bucking bronco.

A family of four standing nearby looks vaguely concerned, and they’re holding their children a safe distance away.

You sit, taking it upon yourself to hook your ankle into Dave’s as he finds a shaded spot next to you.

His head tilts, and he sighs, his eyes close for a moment.

A quick glance around, and he leans over to give you a peck on the nose.

His fingers scrunch on the concrete, and you’re tempted to grab them. But it’s a little hot out.

When he pulls back, his face is red and he very immediately goes to open his phone camera.

It’s amazing how bashful he can be when you’ve been so intimate for so long.

Dave’s right in the middle of getting some photos of you with bird poop on your shoulder when Terezi screeches something about the braille on a sign saying ‘crocodiles’.

He almost leaps up away from the bench where you’re sat, yanking your hand and pulling you to the next thing. Nepeta perks up, not having noticed her date jettisoning away. She hops to her feet.

“Cmon!” he says, and you really don’t have any choice.

He’s pulling you, after all.

After the crocodiles, it’s the reptile house.

You catch up with Terezi and Nepeta, who are standing at a tank that contains a couple of small, pointy and colorful geckos. Nepeta is gushing about something or another, describing them fully, and Terezi is just nodding along and grinning at her.

“So sharp, with yellow backs and…”

Nepeta might be extra, but… well, earlier, with the big cats? She’d been so excited she almost yanked Terezi into a pole. And she had stood there and talked about them for twenty minutes. It’s different from high school, when she’d been almost intolerably excited about anime and… what was it? Tokyo Mew Mew? Is that an anime?

She wore cat ears almost constantly, and… a tail. And generally fit all the stereotypes of your typical weaboo.

Nepeta is kind of adorable, though. So it… worked?

You didn’t talk to her much, then.

Terezi somehow mellows her out, though.

Terezi isn’t a bad person at doing just that with pretty much anyone, actually. It’s weird, considering her manic personality a good percentage of the time.

The girls end up walking a bit more slowly than you and Dave, and the four of you get separated with an unspoken agreement to meet back up later.

As you round a darkened corner into the bat tunnel, Dave pulls you to the side and flips your visor down. While you’re grumbling and pulling it back up, Dave dives in and gives you a happy little kiss. There aren’t any folks around, so you let it linger a bit. You and Dave somehow seem to have entered a bubble of a lack of population in the cool dark of the reptile house.

He flips the visor up, this time, like some kind of smooth move.

You smack him on the forehead, but kiss it better and walk away, grumbling about hats.

Dave catches your sweaty hand, clenching it tight. In another dark room, he kisses your cheek. In the next, he pulls you aside to give you a smeck just below your right ear.

All the kisses make you a little flustered, and you end up playfully shoving at him.

He’s being so uncharacteristically public about his affection that you end up giving him a few odd looks.

“What?” he asks, in response to your perturbed curiosity.

“You don’t usually like PDA,” you reply, twisting your fingers across his palm.

Dave pauses, registering the sensation of your digits twining with his, knuckles lightly knocking.

“I just felt like treating you special, is all,” he says, very simply.

There’s a wall of glass to your left, the outdoor fish pond cut in half across its surface. Catfish swim lazily past Dave’s eyes. He smiles at you, a little pull on the corner of his mouth that creaks before splintering into something wider.

The very slightly crooked left canine in his mouth shows as he leans into you, again.

“Because you’re the most special thing to me,” Dave adds.

Your heart almost dissolves, and, hearing voices, you get up on your toes to deliver a short kiss to Dave’s nose before drawing back again.

You’re almost to the exit of the reptile house, waiting in a corner out of the way for Nepeta and Terezi to come back out, when Dave gets a phone call.

His arms, which had been resting atop your shoulder from beside you, draw slowly away as confusion consumes his face.

“Who…” he wonders, smile fading as he pulls out his phone.

Then he sees the screen.

“Who is it?” You ask him, cocking a brow.

All at once, the slow fade of his smile freezes, he tenses, and his eyes shutter down like grilles on a pawn shop.

His visage is petrified, and everything feels suddenly cold in the close space between you.

Dave swipes his thumb across the screen to answer.

You’re close enough to hear whoever Dave’s talking to.

It’s tinny, solid.

“Hey little guy,” an unfamiliar voice rings from the device. “Got some time for your Bro?”

Dave’s whole body shakes. Maybe ten full seconds of that, and he’s perfectly still.

His smile entirely disappears, and he goes so wholly blank he’s not even the same person anymore.

He’s stopped breathing.

You pull back, just slightly, and see Dave’s eyes widen behind where his shades have slipped down on his nose.

Like a landslide of fear has taken him, he’s washed back away into himself.

“Dave?” You ask, warily.

He’s scaring you. Everything about him is a harsh, rigid line.

When he doesn’t respond, you reach out a hand to hover in front of him. You don’t want to touch him, in case it’s one of those times. But… he’s so… distant.

Dave is fifteen hundred miles away.

“Dave, what’s wrong?” you ask, frantic.

The girls are rolling up to the exit out of the corner of your eye, gushing to each other about something in that … sticky and playful third-person way of theirs. It’s saccharine.

They stop some distance away from you, Nepeta seeing your worried face and holding Terezi back.

“Dave?” the voice asks, from the other end of the line. Garbled by the connection. But somehow, still familiar.

“I’m here,” Dave says. So softly. Like he hopes so desperately that he’s not heard.

With his jaw clenched like it is, you’re shocked when he manages to speak. His fist is clenched in the hem of your shirt, like iron.

“I’ve been hurt, bad. You’re my only connection right now, I need a couple of papers signed off. You got a couple of days you can come see me? Come see your bro? I’m…”

There’s a slow, tired, hacking series of very wet coughs from the other end of the line.

The draw of Dave’s jaw just gets tighter and tighter, until you hear a pop.

A kid shouts something joyful behind you, about ‘going to go get a present now, right dad?’

It feels significant, somehow.

“I’m dying, little bro.”

Dave’s whole body unclenches at once, and he finally breathes.

Something like relief and agony cross his face at once before easily dissolving back into the blankness from before.

You don’t even know what’s going on.

Wait.

Is that… his brother? His Bro?

It'd been so long, you... well, you didn't forget. But it didn't even strike you as a possibility that his brother would...

When Dave speaks, it’s like he’s shattering himself just to make a sound.

“Yeah. Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys, it gets a little angsty from here out! my drama-loving ass cannot and will not be stopped unfortunately! 
> 
> Bro will not get screen time, lol, (no regrets about that decision tbpfh) so dont worry about seeing him in there. Though his words and actions will be described verbally! but there will be NO bro apologizing here. none at all, no forgiveness etc. 
> 
> but yeah haha im sorry lol. i will update tags on the fic or mention shifty stuff per chapter as i need to. 
> 
> also like. u can pull terezi's lesbianness from my cold dead hands i love her so much honestly i am so happy she got so much screentime haha. we didnt forget about dre (terezi) this time! lol 
> 
> i hope everyone is having a wonderful week, and that yall sleep well and drink lots of water! <3 <3 <3


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: panic attacks, stress, dry-heaving, talk about past abuse and interactions with abusers, violent reactions, and a shouting match

“So then he… well Karkat, I can’t very well elaborate on my abysmal commissioner when you keep losing your attention,” Kanaya says, prim.

Her legs are gracefully crossed under the table, poised as always, and she holds her mug with both delicate hands.

She’s gone with coffee this time, instead of tea. The milk foam coats her upper lip, and she licks it off. Somehow, even that looks graceful and purposeful, however silly. The steam rises from the cup as she sets it down on the little wooden table of the café. The flow of it in the air brings your eyes back down to your own drink.

The cocoa sits practically untouched, aside from a long enough drink to muss the nice little leaf that’s been poured into the cream. It softly steams, as well. Swirls. You stare at the bubbles in the surface, watching as five of them pop in quick succession.

The lightness of it somehow reminds you of the creamy swirl of the back of Dave’s hatless head, walking away from you across the airport.

You’re lost in your drink again.

“Dear? Karkat?”

As if emerging from a dream, you jolt and find her gaze with your own.

Kanaya looks… concerned.

Her wedding ring flashes subtly in the light from the window as she folds her hands over the top of her coffee mug.

Brow twisted upward in worry, she leans in a little. It’s time to revisit the subject again. Her workplace concerns will be out the window, by now. “Have you heard from Dave for the last few days? He’s been gone a week, now.”

Your eyes cast down again. You scowl into your coffee, huffing a soft breath at the glare on the tabletop. The tank top you’re wearing today drifts briefly down your shoulder. It’s Dave’s, so it’s a little big on you.

God, you miss him.

The shirt smells so good.

“No,” you reply. “Not for four days.”

Kanaya takes in a sharp little breath, and then tries(badly) to cover it up with a clearing of her throat.

Bless her sweet soul, but she can be awkward.

“Have you tried texting him?” she asks.

It makes your brow furrow more, and you dip the tip of your thumb into your hot chocolate. The foamed cream slides slowly back off the nail, so slowly. It must be three or five whole minutes before you answer.

Kanaya waits patiently.

Everything is holding a bit of static in your head right now. You’ve been distracted at work, as well, worrying about him.

Since he left, you’ve been… beside yourself.

“Every day, at least twice a day,” you admit. With finality.

Kanaya’s little frown is almost audible.

“What happened, exactly?” she asks. “I know some of the messy childhood story from Rose, though some things are very obviously better left undisclosed.”

The question makes you tense.

The best you yourself can do is guesswork about a lot of things.

And so you throw some guesses at Kanaya.

Who better?

“I… he got a call when we were at the zoo,” you begin, fingers clutching tight around the mug.

Kanaya nods, you see out of your periphery, and you take a deep breath. Some of the tension leaves you, only to be replaced by an inexplicable hollowness.

“It was his Bro. Not Dirk, the other one,” you say. You don’t know his name, either. “His biological father.”

Kanaya hums in affirmation, waiting for you to get on with it.

“He said he was dying, and Dave said he would go visit him,” you tell her. She’s silent across the table. You get the feeling that maybe you should have persuaded Dave to not go. You feel horrified at yourself for not working better to make sure it didn’t happen.

Or you could have gone with him.

You almost hear the table creak as you bear your guilt down upon it.

“Dave just, I dropped him off at the airport and we texted all the time,” you ramble, breathing hard. “He wouldn’t tell me anything in particular that wasn’t wrapped in miles of metaphor, which is normal for him, but he told me on the phone about how awful he felt to be there, and how much of an unforgivable dickpuppet Bro turned out to be even now.”

You’re suddenly glad the coffee shop is almost empty.

Some kind of heat is coming into your eyes.

“But he seemed like he was coping okay,” you say, and your nose prickles.

Kanaya is still silent, and you watch her hands leave the table to sip her coffee.

You’re trying to stay as soft-spoken as possible, and you’re managing it pretty well.

“It’s only been a week, I’m being so _stupid_.”

“Breathe,” Kanaya says, very simply.

You release a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

The hard ball of tension in your chest spreads to your back, and you roll your shoulders, trying not to curl forward and get stuck there.

“It seemed like his therapy was holding him out and he was doing strongly, and then—“ you stutter to a stop, and the tension reforms, sinking its claws into your limbs.

The mug shakes in your grip.

You take a few minutes to breathe, slowly.

Something you remember Kankri having to do, back when you still lived with him. And something you see Dave doing on occasion to relieve mild stress and get things back in order.

Inhale for four slow beats, right from the diaphragm.

Kanaya hums a note, and sips her coffee again.

“Take your time, dear, there’s no hurry,” she offers.

Exhale for eight beats, all the way out.

After several minutes of this, the tension begins to leave your spine and shoulders.

It seeps off of you like a badly done chemical reaction, pooling on the floor around you and disappearing into the nether.

The sounds of the coffee shop are loud, almost too loud, but you push past them and continue to breathe.

The anger and frustration turn from a storm, into a stiff and underlying wind.

Once you’ve slowed your heartrate, you sigh.

When you speak, your voice comes out small. Silent.

“I should have gone with him,” you say.

Kanaya tsks under her breath.

“Now, don’t bully yourself, dear,” she says, and you’re letting your head drift up, taking in a breath to correct her with.

But she continues, not giving you the space for protest.

“From your point of view, it was probably a good thing to let him face this alone,” she says. “He could use support, and you supported him as well as you could from afar.”

Her words make you look back down at the table.

“He didn’t ask you to come, did he?” Kanaya asks you.

Heaving a heavy breath, you shake your head. No. He didn’t.

“Then all you can do is support his decisions, and support him when he gets home,” she says, with a very deliberate and finite tone of voice.

“Your new position at work may have not taken kindly to you leaving at such short notice for a week at a time, either,” she says, waving a hand. The hand with the wedding ring.

It’s true, they might not have taken it well. And you really need the job.

“Dave probably knew,” you fill in. When you glace warily up at her, Kanaya is nodding.

“So what are you going to do?” she asks, meeting your eyes over her mug.

“Take care of him when he gets home,” you confirm.

Kanaya grins, a little.

“It is a very stressful thing, dear. But it’s okay.”

You nod, just the tiniest incline of your chin.

It pops something in your neck, anyway.

You have to push your shirtsleeve up, again.

You sure hope so.

It’ll be fine, right?

 

* * *

 

Later that night, you’re just sinking into the bath after a quick rinse, when you get a phone call.

It takes you a minute to realize that it’s Dave’s ringtone.

You slip on the floor in your haste to reach it.

The novel you had just cracked open barely misses falling in the tub as you jolt out of the warm water, and rush across the room. Your feet slap noisily on the floor.

Your hair drips coldly on your shoulders, and you have push it out of the way before you accept the call.

You put it up to your ear.

Deep breath.

As calmly and happily as possible, you speak first.

“Hey babe, I’ve missed you. Are you home yet? I was just getting in the bath, but I wouldn’t mind heading over if you wanted to… catch up on the last week,” you try.

And immediately fault yourself for saying something that sounded suggestive.

The voice that answers after ten whole beats of silence:

It’s not Dave.

“Wow, that was so weird to be on the receiving end of,” John’s nasally baritone echoes down the line.

You leap as if shocked, and almost fall again.

“John?” you ask, dumbly. You know who it is. Why is he with Dave, though?

…

Did Dave take John instead of you? Did John fly up to meet him?

What?

Sudden inadequacy fills your head and veins. It spreads from the base of your skull like a poison. Why weren’t you good enough?

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen, I’m sorry for calling you on Dave’s phone, but… well, he…”

“What the fuck are you doing there in Philly? I thought Dave was going alone,” you interrupt.

John makes some noise like he’s finishing a sentence (“…’s in the shower”), and then… he kind of makes a confused sound.

“Wait, what do you mean?” He asks.

The inadequacy turns into… something else entirely.

“He got back three days ago, man,” John says. “He said he texted you.”

You have to walk back and sit on the tub.

Dave’s been back for… three days? And you’ve been worried out of your mind. For… nothing? Well, maybe not nothing. But, your eyes narrow, and something sinks like a stone in your heart.

“Look,” John says, and you can imagine him waving his hands about, trying to collect his thoughts.

“I don’t care, I just wanted to ask if you could come over. I can’t get him to do much, my dad took care of him the last time he had to see Bro and I’m not very good at this,” John explains. “I just barely managed to get him to bathe. I’ve gotten him to eat at least a little today, and as far as I can tell he’s been drinking water and snacking on the doritos he keeps in his room.”

You’re already putting on pants and shirt. John’s voice gets a little muffled at times, but you’re on your feet and well on your way.

It’s no time for stress.

And Dave will be happy to see you, right?

“…ould get over here. Maybe you can straighten him out,” John finishes.

You’ve barely heard him say this much at once aloud, let alone sincerely.

But John sighs, on the phone.

“I’m on my way soon,” you tell him. “Watch him and make sure he doesn’t stay in the shower too long.”

“I’m not his babysitter,” John grumbles quietly. You can tell he doesn’t mean it.

John’s voice reeks of worry and fretting. Like it’s taken him this long to just get Dave’s phone, and get desperate enough to try and contact you. Did he contact his father about it yet? Probably not, or Dave would be eating more substantially.

John will be checking on him every five minutes, if he can, and bullying him into washing.

You hang up.

Not bothering with a binder or even socks for your shoes, you grab your keys and wallet, phone in your pocket, and make sure the water’s off before leaving the house.

 

* * *

 

On the way to Dave’s house, you find yourself with too much room to ponder.

You try to keep it plugged down, but.

The anger bubbles up anyway.

He made you worry, he didn’t contact you, he got back and didn’t want to see you. He didn’t contact you.

You’ve been sitting in desolation for days, now, beside yourself. And he… didn’t even tell you he was back.

You manage to press down most of that anger. Assuaging it with mutterings about how he must be feeling. Is he okay? He’s not functioning properly, right now. Was he afraid of calling you? What happened that made him cut you off in Philadelphia? Did he eat enough while he was there?

Will he want to see you?

What if you’re doing the wrong thing, by not giving him space?

Why didn’t he contact you?

Everything just…

Keeps swirling.

An upsetting cacophony of emotions are spinning a roulette wheel of anger and worry and sadness in your head.

It’s not gone, even by the time you pull your car up to the house.

Most of the lights are on inside, even the slightly faded one on the living room ceiling.

The night is quiet around you as you let yourself into the house.

It’s oddly silent for having so many rooms lit.

The kitchen, when you pass it, is spic and span.

The living room is mussed like John’s been spending time in there, and the bathroom is billowing steam even as you pass it.

Dave must have just finished.

When you look, his soap caps are open, and the shower curtain is messily draping half over the tub. Not… normal. Dave is usually organized in the bathroom.

A quiet muttering of voices comes from down the well-lit hallway.

It’s mostly John’s, obviously forced calm, a soothing tone. Smattered into it is the infrequent muttering of Dave.

Oh, Dave.

It’s so good to hear his voice.

“Karkat will be here soon,” John is saying, as you near the door.

When you round the corner, Dave is sitting shirtless on the edge of his bed, with his head in his hands.

The ceiling fan in this room is a little creaky, as well.

The blades spin, producing a breeze that ruffle’s John’s dry hair.

There’s trash and clothes all over the floor.

Dave’s back is hunched, his shoulders pronounced, his breathing too light and his entire form sloping downward from where John is touching his shoulder.

John looks up, and sees you.

His eyes almost cross with relief, and he beckons you forward.

A smile building onto your lips, you step closer, ready to do whatever you can.

As if you need his approva—

“I don’t want to see him,” Dave whispers weakly.

Everything in you crashes to the floor.

“What?”

You feel like you’re going to vomit.

Dave’s head whips up at the sound of your voice, and John leaps away from him as if burned.

“I didn’t mea—“ Dave tries.

His eyes are full of fear, bags under them more pronounced than you’ve ever seen. He looks shaken, relieved, terrified, sad, angry, all in order, face twisted and torn and wrenched like a rag doll between eight thousand emotions.

But he said it.

“You don’t want to see me?” You manage, again.

You know it’s not his fault. You know it’s what he wants, and what he needs, somewhere inside.

But rejection blinds everything else.

A real tear bubbles up from your eye.

It courses down, and reignites the selfish anger from your car ride.

The anger that grew from your agony.

It’s an uncontrollable force, unstoppable and terrible and awful and you’re opening your mouth to shout without even thinking about it.

“After all the time I spent wondering if you were okay?!” You yell at him. Almost hoarsely. Spit flying from you, fists clenched by your sides.

John makes a noise, and gets out of the room as fast as his feet can carry him.

But you’re not paying attention to him.

The only thing you can see is Dave’s face, broken, and you can’t.

You can’t stop.

The wave of the past week’s hazy anxiety all bottles up and bursts like a firework, fuse run out and gunpowder exploding furiously. Monstrous, a tsunami, set to decimate.

“You didn’t even tell me you were back!!!” You shout again, and take a step forward.

Dave flinches.

He’s looked away by now.

His eyes aren’t shuttered, and that should worry you, that not even his defense mechanisms are working.

But he’s not meeting you anymore.

His arms jolt, as if wanting to spasm upward to defend himself.

You see it, and you still can’t stop.

Huffing, puffing, face creasing in anger and jaw so rigid it hurts, you wave a hand.

“I was so worried! I love you so much, I was so _worried_!” you yell, and Dave still isn’t looking at you. The lack of contact with his eyes makes you feel even more distant from him. The distance he’s put between you hurts, stings, rips you a new one. “Four days, and you could have been dead for all I knew, laying in a ditch your _fucking Bro put you in!”_

Dave’s eyes sneak up on the corners of his eyelid, distraught and drawn and so sunken you half expect him to tell you he’s a corpse, or that he…

That he wants to break up?

Why did your mind jump to that point?

The anger rustles in you, bristling, as he inhales.

“I’m _SORRY_!” Dave yells back, hoarse. Timid, afraid of being… being punished?

Squeaking on the edge like a rusted, whining gear.

Like a caged dog.

Your vitriol turns inwards.

Another two tears course down the front of your face, one lingering, itchy, on your chin.

You sniffle, and you smudge it away.

But you can’t stop.

Something in you knows that you should stop, that you should apologize, that you should ask what’s wrong. And god, but you didn’t even ask him what’s wrong yet. He’s been around his bro for days, and you can’t even help him. You’re disappointing everyone, with this.

But his hunched shoulders and his guilt and the weight of the now-climaxing stress from the past week. They’ve left you worn to the bone, haggard, worried, angry. An exposed nerve.

“You didn’t even _call_ me, and now you apparently don’t want to _see me_?!” you cry, a harsh echo in the room. “It’s not like I didn’t get the message when you left me in the _fucking_ dark for _four FUCKING DAYS._ ”

Dave turns to face you. He’s curled, defensive, and rises shakily to his feet anyway. Why can’t you stop? You just want him to be okay.

“I didn’t want you to have to take care of me!” He shouts, staring you in the eye.

Half naked, shivering from his own wet hair and the chill of his room. Vulnerable, open.

Not shuttering his eyes.

It shakes the wedge of your anger just a little looser.

“I don’t _deserve_ it, Karkat, I don’t _**deserve**_ you!” he nearly screams, and it forces you to take a step back. “And you don’t deserve to have to see me so fucking _weak!_ ”

The loosened keystone of your upset is knocked out of place. The archway of your anger just… crumbles.

A pile of bad feelings, now, and you take yourself by the shoulders. You convince yourself to take armfuls of the rubble, and throw it out into the backyard.

It feels slimy, it feels icky, it feels wrong. But you have to push it down. For him.

Finally your urge to nurture and protect settles back into place. The bad feelings aren’t forgotten, but… you’re just happy to see him. You’re so happy to even see him, and you need to remember that feeling. You manually take that feeling into your fingertips, and swallow it. You swallow down your anger, you swallow down your rejection, you swallow down it all, even as it pricks the corners of your eyes anew.

Because Dave is so important to you, and you need to fix it, now.

You need to make sure he’s okay.

Desperately, selfishly, selflessly, you need him to be okay.

You lower your hands, forcefully relax your shoulders.

“So I’M _SORRY!_ ” Dave repeats, still shouting. Pain lining every fiber of his being. “I’m not strong enough on my own!”

You walk forward, and get closer to him.

Dave pants, eyes wild and searching and scared, and almost shrivels.

But he lets you get within a foot, and you stop.

“I’m sorry for yelling. You didn’t deserve that much,” you try.

Dave breathes harshly, hugs his arms to himself. He stares at the ground, face gone nearly white. He doesn’t answer, but his neck seems to relax, just a bit.

“You’re not okay,” you try, again.

Dave’s face wrenches upwards, everything twisting altogether. He shakes his head, to confirm, and you feel like a monster.

He wasn’t alright to begin with, and you didn’t see it past the haze.

When he speaks next, it’s back to a whisper.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he’s repeating, and his hands begin to shake.

“I should have asked what was wrong before I yelled,” you say, evenly. Working to keep your tone bland and careful.

Dave nods, and then shakes his head.

“I… I should have responded to your texts,” he tells you.

And yeah.

That anger boils again, but you turn down the heat on it.

“Why didn’t you?” You ask, instead of taking the bait that your mind wants you to.

“I… I didn’t want to worry you,” Dave stammers. He glances up at you, and inches just a little further away. Like he’s expecting retaliation. “Cause I love you.”

Dave’s whole chest heaves, and something wells up in his eyes. The emotion spills over without even making tears, and he sways a little. You want to catch him, but you can’t yet.

“I thought you didn’t want me anymore,” you tell him, soft. Voice shaking a little. “I was really worried about you.”

Dave looks up, very obviously panicking at the words. Things are running wild behind his eyes. His fingers unclench from his own arms, and his hands shoot out to almost touch you. But they don’t. He’s still breathing heavily, not yet composed.

After a tense couple of minutes, you let out a breath. You both need to… calm a little more.

“Okay,” you begin, spreading the fingers of your left hand wide, and Dave startles. “Let’s… you need to put a shirt on. You’re freezing.”

Dave stills at those words, settling into some of the residual familiarity of how you work. He nods, though.

“And I’ll,” you cast about, for a task to do. “…clean up some of this,” you say, gesturing at the floor. Yeah. It’s covered in clothes, and a few bags and dirty plates and empty cups. Dave’s suitcase sits in the corner, overflowed.

Even by your standards, it’s too dirty.

By Dave’s, it’s a sty.

“We can talk some more in a bit, okay? Should I get you some water?” You ask.

Dave nods, and gives you at least a two foot berth as he heads to the closet.

You start with the dishes, taking the stack of plates and cups to the kitchen to give Dave a minute of space. Deliberately, you set down each cup in its own place, and make sure to not let anything crash as you slide the stack of plates into the sink. John gives you a look from where he’s putting a casserole in the oven. It’s a wary look, clearly wanting to ask some questions, but he has his headphones on. So he wouldn’t have heard the… fight.

At least not specifics.

You nod at him, and head back into Dave’s room to clean off his floor.

Helping, that’s what you’re doing. And it settles you, having something to be doing with yourself.

Dave is sitting on the right edge of his bed when you get back to the room, and you can see that the few pieces of actual garbage have been picked up and put in his wastebasket.

He’s wearing a tee shirt, now, and an open hoodie with his pajama pants. He looks hopeless, carefully blank, and he glances up at you. But his breathing has calmed in the two minutes you were apart, so you think it’s probably okay to talk again. Right?

The figure on the bed doesn’t seem to want to talk.

So you crawl to the center of the mattress, crossing your legs to be at his height, and pick right back up. Thankfully, he also turns to rest with one leg folded up on the mussed covers.

“I’d be there for you for anything, Dave,” you say next. More tears burn as you resume. But you keep them in, hold them back, suffocate them, stop up the leak.

“I love you,” you add. “No matter what, I want to help you.”

So much relief crosses Dave’s face at your words, you’re almost sure he’ll drown in it.

“Oh,” is all he says.

And he makes a noise like he’s been punched in the gut.

Tears begin to pour from Dave in earnest, leaving his face sopping and ugly. He crushes his eyes with the heels of his hands, mouth opening and closing.

When he speaks next, it’s muffled by a stopped nose, and his entire body is clenching back up.

He’s almost down to your height, he’s going into himself so much.

“I th-thought,” he tries, and you’ve never seen him cry this much. You maintain your distance, though. And he sways a little closer to you. “I-I also thought you wouldn’t w-want me if, if I came back b-broken,” he says. “And I’m not… okay.”

And he’s so strong, and kind, and handsome, and mature. But right now, he’s being ridiculous.

“Of course I would still want you,” you reassure him.

It just makes his sniffles and tears increase. And Dave is just, he’s just so stressed and close to one thing shattering all of his remaining resolve.

Dave is wordless, now, face red, dissolving. He’s still crying, and all you want is to...

“Can I hold you?” You ask, tentative.

It takes all of five seconds for the question to sink in and Dave to think it over, and then he’s climbing bodily into your lap and burying his face on your neck.

He shakes, wordless, tense, clinging so closely, it’s almost as if he’s trying to get in through the tiny spaces in the weave of your clothes.

You rub his back, right along the spine. Up and down, feeling the jumps in his spinal column.

Dave’s sniffles calm slightly. He inhales against your neck, absorbing your warmth. The loop of your shirtsleeve is feeling damp against your skin, sticky, but you won’t stop him.

His fingers clench against your back, his thighs and knees clamping tight around your hips, and you sigh into his shoulder. Dave’s fingertips travel around your shoulderblades, tracing where the hem of your binder usually is. One of his hands squirms coldly up under your shirt, just for the warmth, and you resist the urge to wince at the shock of it.

Gentle fingertips worry at the elastic lines from your binder. Their nails gently scratch, and the knuckles barely pop as Dave taps a self-healing rhythm into your back.

Your own tension unwinds, almost completely. The ball in your middle just deflates little by little, with each and every soothing touch.

After maybe ten minutes of silence, and the complete ebbing of the sniffles, your anger has worn down to just the slightest little burning ember. The memory of the anger, and the frustration with its cause. Because you feel so at home, here, back in Dave’s arms.

“I’m sorry I didn’t talk for so long,” he mumbles, quietly.

Dave is still tense, still upset.

It doesn’t seem like something that’s going to go away soon.

Not after… well, you don’t know what happened.

“What happened?” you ask, gentle.

Dave is quiet for a long time.

He slides back, palms slipping back around to rest on your shoulders.

Dave sits on your thighs, stares at where he’s fondling the collar of your shirt.

“He’s not,” Dave tries, and then drops off. His eyes cast everywhere but to yours.

The worry flares back up, strengthens anew.

That ball of horrible and awful tension regains its foothold in your chest and back.

“He’s not dying.”

Dave’s face when he says this is the most gut-ripping combination of guilt and disappointment that you’ve ever beheld. There’s relief there, too, continually chased down and eaten by the guilt.

You have no idea what to say.

You spread your legs out, so that Dave can settle cross-ankle between them. The backs of his thighs still rest on your knees, but.

He’s distancing himself again.

It’s not an unhealthy distance, though, it’s a focusing distance.

You tell yourself that like a mantra, on repeat.

“And just, the normal shit. There was a lot of uh,” Dave mutters, frowning. Embarrassment crosses his features, followed quickly by dread. “He treated me… nice for the first two days. He gave me money to go spend on food while I was there, forced it on me.”

Dave’s face turns to a scowl. “He seemed like he regretted… it all. From way back when.”

Oh.

Tears are welling up in your eyes. Bro gave him a lot, and then dashed it. Didn’t he?

“He was so nice, I was confused. I didn’t know how to, how to feel?” Long fingers curl into still-half-wet blonde locks, and his eyes nearly cross with how hard he’s frowning. “I didn’t want to forgive him. Because he’s the…”

Dave looks nauseous, suddenly, like he’s going to throw up.

His face seizes, his shoulders tense.

“Breathe,” you remind him, and he does. Just a little. But he’s breathing, right?

“I could tell something was wrong though, I could tell,” Dave rambles, shaking a fist. “I could tell something was off about it and then on the third day he asked me if—“

Dave freezes now, turning almost absolutely green.

The tension in you spreads like wildfire, your gut flips, you reach out your hands to him and he—

Dave flinches from you.

Huh?

“He asked me if I could forgive him,” Dave says.

And he’s working up, steadily. The pulse is jumping in his neck, and Dave is curling back forward, and he’s going to pull his hair out at this rate.

“I said, I just reacted, I said, I said no,” Dave stammers. His body is a coiled spring.

“I said no and he ‘looked so _angry_ ,” Dave continues. “He sat up real fast in his bed and—“

“Breathe, Dave, please. Shh,” you try to calm him. When you reach out again, he doesn’t flinch this time. But he’s still not looking at you.

He’s got that wild horse look in his eyes, practically crazed and rolling and seeing things you’ve never seen before. His shoulders are so tight they could break a wall down, break the sound barrier.

“He started throwing things at me and he threw them so hard and a shitty hospital plate hit me in the stomach and I ran, I just ran. He said I would feel bad about it later and called me names and shit but I just, I just,” He’s breathing too hard, too fast.

“Shhh, it’s okay that you ran, it’s okay,” you soothe, and Dave leans into your hands on his shoulders, bending forward and dry-heaving over your lap.

Nothing comes up, to your immense gratitude.

“Do you need a trash can?” You ask, trying not to think about you yourself throwing up, trying to only think about how much it’s affecting him. Dave seizes another time, shaking, pulling his hoodie closer around him. The hood flops over his crown. He moves his head side to side.

“It’s okay, Dave, it’s okay. You’re safe now,” you try again. “You were in shock, I think, but you’re safe now.”

With those words, you see him register the situation. Dave tries to consciously slow his breathing.

You slow your own breaths, deep and deliberate, hoping he’ll try to match.

It’s a success. He focuses on the movement of your chest, clutching himself tightly. Slowly, the wildness of his eyes calms, and his tension minutely unwinds.

“Come here,” you say, and Dave shuffles forward a bit.

He doesn’t bury himself in your neck again, but his forehead presses into your collarbone, and his nose into the valley in the center of your chest.

His arms unclench, and he lets them relax in his lap.

You scratch your fingers through his damp hair, along the folds of his cowlick, drawing down a familiar pattern over his scalp.

“He can’t hurt you here,” you say.

Dave nods.

You get the feeling that this is going to be something that takes a lot of time.

You get the feeling it’s going to be bad.

But you’ll stay here, as long as you need to.

“John was making a casserole, do you want some?” you ask.

Dave, breathing deeply, nuzzles a bit into your chest as an answer.

No, then.

“We can stay here as long as you want,” you tell him.

Dave sighs. It’s a shaky, weak thing.

He inches closer, nuzzles even harder into the softness of your chest.

You’re glad you wore a shirt he likes the fabric of.

When he sighs next, it’s a little more firm.

“Do you want me to close the door?” You ask, carding your hand through the hair over his ears. He could use a haircut soon, you’ll ask him if he wants Kanaya to give him one.

Dave shrugs in response. That’s good, he feels safe… enough.

What he does do is roll over, taking you with him. His face just goes back to where it was, and he wraps so close around you it should be impossible.

Dave doesn’t feel like talking. It’s okay, he has these spells.

Has he slept much the past few days?

“We’ll get some food in you when it’s ready,” you tell him.

Dave nods, eyes closed.

He inhales deeply, exhales with some creaking shudder on the edge of the breath.

You get the feeling this isn’t the end of anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! hope everyone is having a good week! 
> 
> i tried to make sure to tag everything in the beginning that could be dodgy without adding to the main fic tags and spoiling things! im sorry i had to interrupt the fluff, tho the next chap will also be fluffy and im gonna be writing a porny oneshot to add onto this soon (it doesn't fit chronologically with the story tho i felt the urge to write something really cracky and silly for this davekat lmao) but! there is still angst to come if my foreshadowing wasnt obvious enough
> 
> anyways! i love yall and i look forward to hearing what you think about the chapter!! <3 <3
> 
> EDIT::::
> 
> before i forget, i got some AMAZING fanart lately! the next chapter is updating rly fucking slow but i wanted to show yall cause AWESOME FANART YO (if u got fanart for me or i forgot to mention u, lemme know!)  
> [some karkat with pretty birds!](http://hampermarketplace.tumblr.com/post/153326601354/okay-so-this-is-an-update-of-a-drawing-inspired)and [dave at the zoo!](http://hampermarketplace.tumblr.com/post/153326645144/and-this-is-a-shitty-dave-inspired-by-this-fic)  
> [some first chapter snapshots and zoo selfies! and birds!!!](http://cactus-dog.tumblr.com/post/152562731673/fanart-for-royalrastafariannaynays-fanfic-if)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whaaaaaat??? another chapter??!?!? whaaaaat?!?!?!

“Fuck,” you sigh, as he slips a hand around your left knee, and uses it to spread your thighs just enough to reach in.

The movie playing in the background flickers a corona around Dave’s cheeks and hair. The stagnant pulses of blue light him up. He’s clearly forgotten about the movie, despite it being one of the most important parts.

It feels like hours that he’s been smoothing delicate fingertips over your inner leg. These fingertips craftily made their way up over the inside seam of your long shorts, and crept in to smudge lines in your sanity by caressing the creases of your thighs and the dampening slit inside.

The wet gasp that slides from your throat seems to spur him on once you’re widened for him on the couch.

He’s usually not this controlling, but Dave has been anything if not willing to please lately.

Something in you has the feeling that maybe you should be concerned about it. But another something in you believes it’s helping him. Genuinely. You asked him about it, the other day, and he just shrugged and said he liked making you feel good.

And if that’s what he wants, who are you to deny him?

He wastes no time in taking his hand on a journey back up your leg, from the knee.

An arm hangs like a mink around your shoulders, a nose presses into your cheek with the angle, and your eyes fall shut like a stage backdrop. He’s got your wrists caught in his spare hand. No interference from you, today. Warm, sweet breaths and lips touch your jaw as Dave’s hand sneaks into the front of your pants.

You let yourself loose a throaty groan as his touch descends, the roughened fingertips from hours poring over papers tracing a tantalizingly shallow line through you. Dave’s fingers grace across everything important, dragging upward at the peak of the outermost fold. He _just_ misses the most important fucking spot, and it makes you want to shout in complaint for a brief second until he repeats the motion.

Slow, deliberate, hot inside your boxers and where his forearm rests upon your stomach.

Dave’s humming some soft, lazy tune in your ear. Deep, sweet like honey.

Your stomach flexes outward as you try to chase his fingers with your hips. A failed mission to achieve _something_ from his hands.

There’s a burning itch at the base of your spine that undulates as he coos into the side of your face, and finally dips in to rub a teasing finger over where you want it.

He inhales it as you moan, low and surprised, shaking on the slow withdraw. You squirm under the weight of his touch and gaze, chest heaving and fists clenching as he rubs your clit again.

"I'm not a patient man, Dave," you bite the air.

You can feel it when he loses the composure to keep teasing, only one lap into the game. Staying away from the main event was never really Dave’s thing. The index and ring finger of Dave’s hand scissor open, spreading your slit, and his middle begins to twist focused, solid strokes around the nub.

It’s enough stimulation after so long of not getting quite enough, that your entire body freezes before shattering into a hundred vibrating pieces. But you haven’t come yet. Not yet. Your legs clench, trying to open, close, do something. Your wrists in his hand try to move, but with the position, and being weak with arousal, you can’t do much but pull and hope he lets you go.

“Dave,” you say, petulant.

“Karkat,” he repeats back, in the same tone.

And hooks his left leg around one of yours, trapping it to the couch.

And takes his hand from your shorts.

“Hey! Don’t do tha-- _oh,_ ”

…to push your other knee to hook over the arm of the sofa.

Your hot center clenches over nothing, that burning itch moving forward from your back.

Your chest heaves almost comically as Dave re-enters Narnia with the better spelunking angle.

His fingers slide wetly through. There’s new moisture there, concentrated and slick and heavy and honestly wetter than a tropical rainforest. Fuck Narnia, your genitals are the Amazon right now. And he’s paddling upriver around your waves and clenches, two fingers running up and around your clit. They tug and pinch, and you cry out and throw your head back against the cushion.

Dave makes a deeply satisfied noise, sighing again and moaning a tiny sound of his own in response to your appreciation at the attention.

Two fingers slide easily through, you moan hungrily, and those same fingers wedge up and back and thrust into you. It makes a noise that’s almost embarrassing with how loud it is, how much it sounds like an especially spit-filled kiss, how Dave groans a little at it, how it makes you feel even wetter somehow. How you clench on his fingers, and how they get sucked in a little deeper.

Everything twitches, and he gets a thumb on your clit.

The movie disappears once more behind your eyelids as you’re fingered into jello, gasping and squirming and straining against the loose and invisible bonds you’ve been given.

The fingers speed up, and they crook, and you see stars. His lips find yours, he traces your mouth with his tongue. You can only whine softly into his exhales as you come apart around his fingertips, shaking to a stop five miles from the destination.

Dave makes a noise like the air has been punched from his chest, and shudders against your shoulder.

Your eyelids flicker open like a camera shutter, catching credits and a theme song before you glance up at Dave.

And he withdraws, a trail of slick following before he very rudely wipes it on your shirt.

“Dude. Wet much?” he asks, sucking a musky fingertip into his mouth.

You growl and scowl at him, dragging his face into your own. He laughs against your lips.

And… like things have been happening, he gets up to clean his hands.

And when you reach for his own shorts, he bats your hand away and laughs again, in a small way.

And you frown even more.

You’re not opposed to being fucked silly after being fucked silly, if not at least giving him a hand.

But lately, he’s not as into it.

For whatever reason.

Your brow curls down into a frown.

Since that first day when Dave got back, things have seemed to go back to normal. But Dave has been… more on edge. And he hasn’t been sleeping well. You wake up to nightmares a lot, fever dreams with tension and panic and softly muttered variations of pleas. And it’s not sexy dreams, you can very well tell.

Right on schedule, you moved into Dave’s house, not having too much to take over. And right on schedule, you started spending more time with him again.

It helps him, you think, to be able to collapse onto you and sigh at the end of the day. His head on your stomach, breathing in your scent of post-shower and sometimes his own soap. Dave seems so truly relaxed again when he’s lying there, tracing soft circles on your hip while you read on your phone.

It took him a few days after you brought him down from his right state. He was unstable and paranoid, constantly asking for reassurance. There was a softly-spoken phone call with his therapist that you didn’t listen to, and then a visit to the man’s house, as he had since retired. But Dave was one of his more capable and successful patients, so he made an exception.

Dave came back from the visit a bit stronger, with more of a straight posture, and went to the phone to order dinner. John looked relieved and happy, so you figured it was a pretty big leap.

Dave went back to work after another phone call to his boss, apologizing for the family emergency. You could hear the woman over the phone reassuring him and telling him to come back on Monday, as they have a new project to start, and the family emergency is definitely excusable.

In the kitchen, you can hear Dave washing his hands, and you clumsily pull up your pants all the way, and go to change your shirt before you follow him in, wobbling a little. His eyes are focused and gentle, and he looks oddly satisfied.

It’s easy to flop against Dave’s back, and sigh into the space between his shoulder blades.

“Mmh?” he asks, and you feel his breaths, measured and calm. Deep breathing, that’s good.

“You okay?” you ask him.

And like all the times you’ve asked in the past three weeks, Dave gives you a half-smile over his shoulder, and nods.

“Yeah. Took the Mayor on a walk this morning. It was nice, he’s been getting antsy without me there for that,” Dave explains. And yeah, that’s great. Assuming every last one of his life responsibilities. So he’s not too overwhelmed anymore to do things. It’s good, he’s on a very steady path to recovery.

But there’s still… he doesn’t seem to want to let you make him feel good.

It’s not just sex, it’s anything.

He goes away from scalp rubs, almost sprints from you making him dinner or helping him wash his back on the few occasions you’ve taken showers with him since he went to Jersey. Dave frowns at your compliments, looks confused for a second when you say you love him.

You’re being patient as you are, and waiting for him to come back around. It’s dealing with his Bro that’s left him this way, you’re sure of it. And he’s improving greatly. A small part of you can’t help but wonder if he still… loves you too. It’s a selfish part, a needy part, a part that itches and scratches like a scab on your knee, impossible to forget about.

But you can’t listen to that part. It’s about Dave, not about you. And even if you’re needy and he can’t tell you he loves you back all the time? He still shows you with his actions, how much he adores you.

It’s fine.

Other than that, moving in together has been working out fantastically. Like you thought it would be, things are essentially the same as before, except that you see more of him. The two of you work in a pretty good rhythm together, with your routines and things only occasionally clashing.

The first few weeks are great so far. Dave finds out that you don’t do anything in particular every Thursday at five, but you DO have a most-Sundays ritual of a bath and a book. He (and John, after some berating about selfishness) are fine with it.

Dave makes a noise when he turns off the sink, a complaint about you being too heavy on his back and not being able to grab the towel.

You know this because he’s reaching for the towel.

“No. Back is comfy,” you hum into his spine.

Dave laughs, and then reaches back to touch you with his wet hands.

His clammy fingers touch your face for about half a second before you’re pushing him away with a grumble, taking the towel for yourself first, before handing it off to him.

The kitchen is only lit by a single counter light, pleasantly dim.

“Movie’s over,” you say, and Dave tries not to smile as you back him up into the counter.

“You hankering for another round?” he asks, very facetiously.

But you try to surprise him and nod, kissing his chin.

Dave rolls his eyes.

“Neither of us have to be up early, and John is visiting one of his girlfriends for a couple days,” you try.

It’s a hopeful gesture, one laden with your own desire to please Dave, and take care of him, and make him happy. He’s always stuck on taking care of you, but you like to return the favor just as much. Maybe if you ask specifically, he’ll let you? Even if you’re still in the afterglow from your last orgasm, and even the tiniest bit stiff from the position, you want to.

Of course sex isn’t the only way to make him happy, but you’re frustrated with that department in particular right now.

He looks a little hesitant, and you watch the gears turn in his head for a moment. Dave’s want to give you what you ask for is warring with himself in his head. It makes you open your mouth after a bit, and give him an easy out.

“Or you could just take a shower and cuddle with me? More movies. And I never get tired of kissing you,” you relent, pressing another sweet peck into the stubble on his chin.

Dave sighs, a little too relieved.

Okay, so it was too fresh.

And its… you should talk about it. A simple conversation about why he doesn’t want… to feel… good. Yikes. But yeah, yeah, you’ll. Uh. Talk about it. It’ll feel better once you have a concrete reason, and he knows how you feel. Because he needs to know you want him to feel nice, right?

God, this sounds pathetic all listed out.

Dave is leaning down to give you a grateful kiss when you notice flashing lights flickering into the kitchen. Reds, mainly.

An ambulance?

Dave perks up, and turns to the window. You also turn to look out.

The ambulance is in front of the neighbor’s house?

There’s a gurney hauling someone into the back of the ambulance, and the man’s service dog is barking and whining, and running in circles.

Dave jerks, and edges around you before running outside, barefoot.

You follow him, making sure to close the door.

The Mayor runs up to Dave, whining loudly and barking, pointing and leaping in turn in the direction of the ambulance.

Dave, open-mouthed, gets down on his knees, to wrestle a hold of the Mayor’s collar by the back. The dog stills immediately, but continues to whine and pant and hang his tail between his legs.

A paramedic trots over to the two of you, and waves a hand to get your attention.

“This is your neighbor’s service dog. Are you of a relation to him?” the paramedic asks.

And you watch, in horror, as the ambulance doors close.

“Yeah,” Dave says, voice shaking a little. “I’m his dog walker.”

His eyes are wide, he’s shocked.

The paramedic gives Dave some information, asks if he has a house key, and once she gets an affirmative, she’s off.

And that’s how you end up taking care of the neighbor’s dog.

 

* * *

 

The next day, you wake up to the silhouette of Dave hunched over the phone on his ear.

He’s trying to stay hushed, holding one hand on your hip. He’s rubbing his fingers in tiny stripes, staying grounded. That’s good. Not good that he needs it, but good that he’s managing this well on his own right now. Not that he hasn’t been, but you’ve been keeping track. Who can blame you? You love him. So much.

Murmuring, his eyes are glued to the dog that’s asleep on his salvaged puppy cot next to the door.

He’s well behaved, very trained, so you weren’t worried about anything during the night.

“Yeah?” you hear, and blearily shift your attention to Dave’s eyes. He’s got a frown on, and then sighs into the phone.

“Alright. Yeah. Thank you for letting me know. Have his people contact me when needed, at this number.”

When Dave hangs up, he looks over and sees your eyes cracked open.

“So, Mr. Jackson passed last night. Heart attack.”

You’re not surprised, but the news of it still… feels strangely raw.

You don’t say anything, don’t nod. This is a good time to let Dave finish his piece.

“They’ve asked me to watch the house and take care of his dog until they figure things out. I was listed as next of kin, for some reason, but since that’s not legal or true they’ve just settled me with caretaking until things are sorted. Some kind of legal system that shit is,” Dave mumbles, rubbing the sleep from his own eyes. “I agreed to taking care of the dog, they said some stuff about legal action if the animal appears harmed in any way, blahblah. Not like I would hurt this big guy anyway. He’s got food and some other supplies and shit next door, I’m gonna grab a box and go and pick it up while the Mayor is calm. You cool to watch him while I’m out for a minute?”

It’s all said, and you stare at him.

Dave, for all intents and purposes, seems unnaturally ready to take this dog, and care for him. It’s endearing, in a way, but also a comfort. He’s so ready to have the animal in the house.

Drowsy, you blink.

A yawn, and you stretch, and nod.

“Yeah, hun,” you murmur sleepily.

You’re still barely awake.

It’s probably all a dream, right?

After Dave removes his warm hand from your hip, and he lays a sweet kiss on your temple, he stands up from the bed.

“Love you,” you tell him, and he chuckles before leaving the room.

You hear the front door close, and the jingle of collar tags follow from the bedroom to the living room window.

The jingle comes back, a weight jumps into the bed, and it lays itself along your side with a huff.

And that’s how you and Dave get a five year old service Labrador named the Mayor.

 

* * *

 

There’s some mess with things, but you end up becoming the new family for now-retired personal service dog, The Mayor. The “the” is part of his legal name, apparently. Dave and John’s Dad helps to pay for the dog’s expensive transferal fee.

Dave _was_ ready to take The Mayor into his own care.

Once it was decided that the dog was going to go into some kind of rehabilitation center, and not have a home with a single family, Dave stepped up to the plate. He frowned, and said some stern words. And then he asked you if you would like to keep the dog, as well.

You couldn’t think of a reason not to. A few days in your home while things were sorted, and The Mayor already fit in with startling ease. It wasn’t honestly that much of a change to have the dog. Or at least, it wasn’t a hindrance at all on your life.

John, of course, loved The Mayor upon meeting him. He took a photo of The Mayor in his stupid joke nose glasses, and posted it on facebook.

The Mayor is no longer working as an official service dog, so he doesn’t need to do retraining at all.

Despite that, you and Dave made plans to do training every once in a while to maintain The Mayor’s good behavior. Dave, in the same conversation, mentioned getting The Mayor re-certified so that he can ride on planes, and go to class with him, and be kept active in public.

You didn’t see anything wrong with that at all.

 

* * *

 

The dog goes through a period of mourning. You didn’t know it was possible for dogs, but The Mayor was apparently very attached to his person. The man was a bigot, but apparently really loved his animal. All the products in his house were old and covered in dust, except for the ones The Mayor would use. Framed photos of veteran portraits, no family to speak of or hear of. All he had was the dog.

There are some very quiet moments with the lab, who’s laying on a blanket next to you on the couch while you read. You got home from a short shift a couple of hours ago, and were immediately joined by the warm bundle of fur.

Dave comes through the front door. Floppy ears perk, and his head lifts from its spot on his feet.

You get a kiss on your forehead and nose, and you smile into it. Within just the past few days, Dave’s temperament has noticeably improved. It’s a relief.

“You want me to do laundry tonight? You only have one work shirt left,” Dave offers, and you feel such a rush of warmth.

“That would be amazing,” you reply, and watch as he nods, then moves over to crouch at The Mayor’s eye level.

The dog looks at him balefully, and licks Dave’s nose.

Dave laughs a bit, and scratches his ears with both hands.

“Did he eat more today?” he murmurs, and you wait until he’s looking at you to shake your head.

“Not since the half can of wet food last night,” you tell him.

Dave looks sad, and his eyebrows wrench up in concern. He hovers over the animal, and you can see the gears turning eternally in his head. Trying to figure out the problem.

“Maybe… Jade recommended putting some chicken broth on his food?” he wonders aloud. “Or some little chunks of the chicken itself?”

“I made some chicken stock the other day, it should still be good,” you tell him.

Dave quirks a smile up at you.

“Yeah, I’ll try that,” he says, and turns back to scratch the dog some more. “Thanks babe.”

\---

The Mayor doesn’t really eat for a few days.

On the fourth day, though, you and Dave take him to the park. The backyard you have is small, and suitable for a running space for him and for him to do his business. But at the park, he lights up; he catches the Frisbees you throw, brings them dutifully back, and plays nice with some other kids and dogs.

That night, he eats a full bowl of his mixed food. The dog still seems a little lethargic, and it lessens by the day, but the vet says it’s normal.

He’s a black lab, sits very still for his weekly baths and daily brushing, loves to nap in your bed with you on your days off, and is content to sleep on his cot in the corner of Dave’s room.

Dave loves the dog. So much.

It almost makes you jealous at first. That a dog can have such a positive impact on him, but you couldn’t.

It makes itself vividly apparent when you wake up, and can’t calm him easily. But as soon as the dog comes and waits patiently by the bed, Dave begins to breathe again.

It stings a bit.

Your caring instincts, passed down from your father, scream at you.

But you take that jealousy, and you shove it down where it won’t shine. The jealousy rots there, but you keep shoving it down until it seems to go away. Your feelings of inadequacy aren’t important, here. It’s hard, but you remind yourself that in letting him do this, you’re still helping him.

Dave starts to take The Mayor on daily runs.

He utilizes the old working dog harness so that he won’t be bothered.

On the rare occasion when he doesn’t sleep well still, Dave will startle awake with the sun. And the dog’s paws on the bed.

Now, he has something to do with his time besides try to sleep some more. He goes out to run. It’s good for him, you can tell.

It means Dave tends to go to bed earlier, and his sleep schedule re-regulates itself.

He lets you do him favors again, stops making that face when you say you love him. His eyes light up more, he lets you be there for him. Laughs more often, again, after a few weeks.

It’s a little trivial, but your sex life picks back up, as well. Even from Dave’s end. The Mayor is perfectly content to leave the room while you carry on your dirty deeds.

You consider taking more early morning shifts.

 

* * *

 

Within a few weeks, you also start waking up to less nightmares.

It’s been a month and a half when you decide that The Mayor’s the best thing to happen to your life in awhile. It’s awful what happened to your neighbor. Truly awful. But this dog...

He’s so good.

So what if more of your paycheck goes toward dog food and supplies? Dave is happy.

And when he’s happy, you are. However much of a fucking sap that makes you.

And hey, you’re happy, too. Something about endorphins released when you look into a dog’s eyes. Or something. A buddy to sit with you on the couch when Dave isn’t home. You end up taking him on a few walks, and it helps you get outside a little more. Which, contrary to popular belief, is good for you.

As you sit over cereal, chin on your curled fist, you can see him grin softly down at the pooch. John is crunching loudly on his morning Wheaties, blabbering on about something or another with his work and coworkers.

“Who’s a good boy? Who’s a pretty, good boy?” Dave is cooing. It’s so dumb and pathetic and heart-wrenchingly tender.

God, you love him.

The dog wags his tail so hard his hind end might just fall off. He cocks his head, curious, excited. They’ve already been on their morning run, so they’re both almost painfully awake.

“It’s The Mayor! The Mayor is the good boy!” Dave answers himself.

It’s not so bad that you couldn’t help him all the way. It’s okay that he needed something else. And this ‘something else’ makes Dave seem… better. Healthier.

It still aches somewhere, yeah. But you’re an adult. And you want to make him happy.

It’s not an easy fix.

Nothing is. But it’s something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Here's some art for the last chapter!!!** :O some talented people drew me things holy shit  
> [some karkat with pretty birds!](http://hampermarketplace.tumblr.com/post/153326601354/okay-so-this-is-an-update-of-a-drawing-inspired)and [dave at the zoo!](http://hampermarketplace.tumblr.com/post/153326645144/and-this-is-a-shitty-dave-inspired-by-this-fic)  
> [some first chapter snapshots and zoo selfies! and birds!!!](http://cactus-dog.tumblr.com/post/152562731673/fanart-for-royalrastafariannaynays-fanfic-if)
> 
> hey guys! so i wanna say sorry for taking so long on this, honestly, and i love you all for your comments and your sticking around for this long
> 
> i was busy for a long, long time. and then i had some health issues and couldnt write anything, or get anything done. and blahblahblah. and i had another recent thing and it's put me under again for writing fluff, but i was determined to write yall another chapter! so here it is!!! and its all fluff!!!!!!! im a bit rusty on writing this story at this point, but im detemined to not abandon it yet!
> 
> i love yall, and i hope you have a wonderful day and weekend, the lot of you! <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! hope everyone is having a good day <3
> 
> first song is “be still” by the killers! suggested by my dude j-dog aka sadvegeta! second song is linked, and the third is “you go to my head” by billie holiday! Haha i totally did that cheesy thing where i included songs but youll take it from me kicking and fighting!

You’re in the kitchen slowly stirring the tall stock pot on the stove.

“-don’t break character; you’ve got a _lot_ of heart,” you serenade your spoon, where it’s turning steam. Not holding it like a microphone, that’s more Dave’s thing. “Is this real or just a dream?”

No, you more look over the side of the pot, staring into the steam below, almost humming the words under your breath.

“A dream,” Dave murmurs from where his head is pillowed on his hands.

It makes you smile in a small way.

Right now, it’s full of slowly sizzling onions and bacon. It’ll be chili eventually. You’ve got maybe fifteen minutes before the bacon is browned enough for your taste.

You only really sing when you’re cooking. You’re not that great at carrying a tune in a bucket.

The smells of chopped peppers and broccoli-cheese cornbread waft through the house.

“Mmh. Love it when you get all raspy like that,” Dave adds. When you hear fabric rustle, you glance over at where he’s hanging half off the counter.

Staring at you with leaden eyelids, and a muzzy grin. Like always.

The top of his head is littered with bright purple splotches, from the last Rose-enacted hair dye prank. When are they gonna stop, honestly?

He’s been watching you prep for maybe five minutes now, just woken up from a good nap. True to himself, he’d complained at first about you just having your ‘soft playlist’ on shuffle, and had made a few suggestions before succumbing to being denied. And also being told that if he didn’t like it, he could fuck off.

That was the winning point, right there.

Dave loves watching you cook, he’s told you as much.

Even if he’s dozing.

“When’s it gonna be ready?” he asks, knuckling his left hand over his eyes.

“Could be an hour or so,” you say.

Dave hums, and you go back to singing and stirring.

The song fades out, and you wait until your shuffle spits out something else.

You add the minced garlic to the onions and bacon.

At the first few notes of the new song, you pause.

It’s… a familiar tune.

 _Very_ familiar.

And after a few phrases of a very bassy and funky beat, you whip your head around to look at Dave.

A song you definitely wouldn’t have.

When the rapping starts, you scowl half-heartedly.

But it’s a song _Dave_ would have.

“Dave,” you begin, and you can hear your father’s reprimanding tone, strong in your mouth.

He’s got his face buried in his elbow, and his high, sleepy giggling is increasing steadily in volume.

“Dave! When the _fuck_ ,” you start, turning with the wooden spoon in your hand, “did you get into my music and add songs?!”

You’re grinning, though, you can’t help it.

He’s adopted some pranks from John. How many other songs did he sneak into your library?

And you don’t mind. This time, not at all.

Dave is still chortling a little when he finally looks up, and sees you standing there with your arms crossed.

And without even bothering to defend himself, he stands. And starts dancing toward you across the kitchen. Beckoning you forward with two fingers, crouching and stepping with the beat.

Jesus Christ.

Dave’s not a great dancer by any stretch of the imagination. He’s not the worst you’ve ever seen, but… Being tired doesn’t help him one bit.

When he dances, you’re not sure if it’s ironic or not, but he’s stiff as fuck, never knows what to do with his hands, and. He bobs his head like he’s making a statement in the wrong century. Like a fucking chicken. It’s so embarrassing. Now, it’s not all the time that he does this.

And even though those moments are rare, they’re enough for you to know that right now, he’s doing this to be silly.

The Mayor boofs softly from the floor just outside the kitchen, and you hear the clicking of his claws as he stands and walks in to keep Dave in his sight.

And as Dave struts toward you, jutting his hips obscenely and running his hands down his shirted torso in such an exaggerated manner that it can’t possibly be sincere…

You snort a laugh and put down your spoon.

Dave’s face looks like victory.

He gets up in your space, mussing his own hair and giving you the worst bedroom eyes you’ve ever seen. And as he drags his fingers down his face, they catch his lip.

Which he bites.

And winks, with a horrible laugh.

You roll your eyes, laughing again.

You’re not as versed in bad dancing as he is, obviously.

But you get up on him and bump your hips up and down, side to side, with the bass of the song.

Dave loses some of the façade, but grabs your hips and starts chanting the lyrics right in your ear.

His thumbs smooth up under the hem of your tank, and he moves his dry hands on your waist like he’s starting a fucking campire in boyscout camp. It’s so ridiculous it’s hard for you to keep the beat.

When he leans close, and kisses your ear, you think maybe he might actually dance with you.

“Say whaaaaaaat!” high, and loud, directly in your ear canal.

You dissolve into laughter as well, leaning your forehead into his taller shoulder.

Dave grinds his hips into yours, catching your rhythm and rolling with it easily.

See? He’s not all bad.

Dave gets more exaggerated again after a couple minutes, and when he squeals “Say whaaaat!” again into your ear, you start laughing so hard it gets hard to breathe.

It’s so much, and you know this song is impossibly long.

Dave tries to stop you as you stumble over to John’s iHome. The Mayor barks excitedly, confused but recognizing the laughter as good.

Gasping past your smile, you struggle past Dave's long arms around your middle.

And just barely, manage to touch the ‘next’ button.

There’s silence as you slow your breaths to something closer to normal. Dave holds you from behind, still giggling into your neck. His hands tighten on your waist, and his exhales come warm on your skin. The shuffle is still for a bit, trying to find the next song. It doesn’t usually take this long.

The bacon sizzles on the stove.

You walk over to stir it briefly, and then turn back to Dave.

His eyes are shining with exertion and repressed hilarity.

He looks so happy here.

The Mayor sighs in that doggy way, and lays down in the doorway.

Piano introduces, and Dave is across the room with you again in seconds.

He finds your hands with his own. His fingers spread from your palms, and if you couldn’t breathe before, your breath is now totally gone. The shades resting on top of his hair jolt as he steps back up to you.

The soft bass violin notes beat as slow as your heart throbs, and Dave ducks under your hand, twirling himself with two of your fingers.

The gesture makes you sigh another few chuckles, even as he’s looking back up from your clasped fingers to kiss your palm.

And he kisses the top of your hand.

And your forehead.

And your cheek.

And then, before you can catch his lip, Dave is framing your waist with his spare fingers.

 _He’s good at this, after all,_ you think absently, as the bubbles float up and out of your ears.

Your brain is fizzing with adrenaline, still, even as your heart is coming back down out of your throat.

The last of your panting laughs leaves you, and your mouth closes as your ears are soothed by the dulcet tones of Billie Holiday. The tinny quality of the recording makes the moment feel impossibly poignant and sweet.

Dave’s eyes are so full of love on yours. And his smile is gentling into something pure and soft. Plump lips pull upward into an open grin, full of happiness.

Oh, and he’s so beautiful this way.

The dance works its way into conclusion, and you find yourself transfixed by that wonderful smile. Once again. For maybe the millionth time.

Dave brings himself closer still, and dips his chin to ghost a kiss over your mouth.

You experience the most intense déjà vu, as he pulls on your mouth with his own.

Briefly, chaste, sure and steady.

A dark closet comes to the back of your head, warm breath mingling with yours in a small space.

Some guy you hadn’t thought much of before had dragged you into that closet, and you.

Well, why not just experience the full memory?

It’s typical enough to have a vivid flashback while you’re dancing with your boyfriend in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

_Dave Strider. That’s his name. Probably._

He’s holding you by the forearm, thumb sliding up and down through the same two square inches of hair on your skin. It feels strangely electric.

There are coats around you, shadowing almost everything as your eyes adjust.

Why did he yank you in here?

Dave Strider, of all people.

The guy who used to be… well, outcast is kind of a cruel word. Everyone was guilty of playing into it, at the time.

But he was a ‘weird’ kid, a long time ago, with maybe one friend. And with that one confirmed friend, he had John Egbert. Who was a complete clown and pest? So it didn’t help him much, back in middle school and elementary.

Dave Strider used to be a ratty kid, wearing old and holey clothes that teachers liked to blame on rambunctious behavior and mild poverty. He smelled bad most of the time, until maybe ninth grade. He was quiet, and never smiled. He ran around like he was some kind of badass and did sword tricks for random audiences, like it was impressive, somehow. He made grades barely good enough to pass, and he didn’t fit in.

Now, though, in this closet, he smells _good_. And he’s wearing clothes that fit. And you suddenly feel so guilty for not saying anything when he got treated badly in grade school. And he’s messing with the hair on your arm, and glancing around the small space nervously.

He just said something about hiding from his ex.

Which one? Jade? It was Jade last time you checked.

“I mean, I don’t really want to see her even though it’s been a month ya know,” Dave is rambling at you, and you’re still trying to figure out why he hasn’t let you go. “Cause even though it was cool an’ all, she was still upset and I don’t want my friend t’ be _upset_ , right? I mean she’s a good friend, and I have no idea howda talk t’ her and I _barely_ have any idea how t’ talk t’ you, ‘cause I forced you to be in here an’ all.”

“I just want to get my coat and go,” you say, hesitantly.

Dave waves a hand absently, almost smacking you in the face, and reaches for your coat. How did he know which one is yours?

And he keeps. Talking.

“I mean she’s out there so I’m trapped in here which would be unfortunate if it ain’t for the fact that you’re pretty cute and I wouldn’t mind joinin’ the very literal makeout party outside with you, Vantas. It’s Vantas, right? Like Vanitas, Karkat som’n’ right, well of course it’s Karkat Vantas, nothing else makes sense and I heard you yellin’ the fuckin’ name the other day in the hallway to correct that jerk Vicky or whatever cause she kept bein’ mean and callin’ you—“

“What?”

“Well of course I would make out with you I mean who wouldn’t,” he starts going, on that train now.

You’re reeling.

So, this guy. Who used to be... what he was. But is… what he is.

Is saying he’d want to make out with you? What?

Your little pathetic and sad teenage heart is beating out of your chest. A boy. A boy wants to kiss you. _You_. A boy who isn’t smelly anymore, and even when he was, he wasn’t bad looking. A boy who’s started dressing a little better since he started coming to school and leaving every day with his friend Egbert. A boy who didn’t say ten words all strung together to you until today. You swear.

Maybe you’re exaggerating but it’s. A boy. A guy.

A… dude. Who’s only a tiny bit taller than you. Maybe half an inch. And he’s uneasy behind his sunglasses, you can see in the very dim light now. And his thumb is rough with callous on your arm.

It’s like it was only yesterday that you were standing in goodwill, eleven and shopping for new clothes with your dad. Because he wanted you to be a boy if you wanted to be a boy. But clothes are expensive, much less a whole new wardrobe. And Dad wanted to buy you at least two decent binders too. He wanted to spend his savings on them, but he only had so much and still needed to save some.

So. Goodwill and Walmart.

There was a scrawny blonde kid in that Goodwill with way-too-long, greasy hair, a crumpled ten dollar bill dangling out of his hand as he frowned at the rack of jeans before him.

A pair of used white tennis shoes were tucked under his arm. Those are seven dollars here, you know it for a fact. So he only had three dollars left.

His shirt had a big cut down the side, like a blade made it. And he was looking at the jeans like he really needed them. He’s making a choice. His current shoes are held together by a thick layer of duct tape.

You tugged on your dad’s sleeve, and pointed the kid out.

And you hid behind a rack while your father walked over to give the kid twenty of your own clothes dollars.

And you watched Dave Strider wrench up in that Goodwill, and try not to cry as he refused the money.

Where was his dad? Didn’t he have a dad to help him buy clothes?

Your dad just held up his hands, refusing defiantly to take the money back.

Fast forward the better part of a decade.

And now, that same kid is standing here. Completely different.

Well, not completely.

But.

Instead of taking your coat from his hand, you ignore your stampeding heart and reach out to touch his temple.

And he goes quiet, raises an eyebrow.

But doesn’t smirk or look you up and down or make a joke or whistle or anything. Later you’ll make that part up to yourself.

And he nods as you wind your fingers into his hair, and shakily lean in to press your mouths together. The sound of foggy water floods your ears, the party outside nothing compared to the pounding in your veins and the swirl of your thoughts.

Strider’s lips smack messily against yours after that first kiss, and he tilts his head.

Someone sort of laughs, like disbelief.

It gets too hot and wet, silence dissolving into kisses and sighs and spit-slicked, inexperienced lips clumsily crossing lips.

Dave is so much different in here, in this closet. He parts himself from you, and his eyes are hot on yours as he just breathes into you. In between all the heavy coats and the dust, he drags his fingertips up your sides, drawing up the hem of your shirt, and you shiver. Maybe that’s a bit much, though.

He’s looking at you curiously, then, a question clear on his next breath, and you’re just about to tell him what you’re thinking, when…

The closet door opens.

Rose looks between you with wide eyes.

You push from Dave, trying to ignore the disappointment on his face. And you leave, grabbing your coat, wiping a trail of wet from the corner of your mouth. Rose looks like the cat that got the cream.

 

* * *

 

Fast forward even more time. The better part of a decade, again, spent.

There isn’t any disappointment in Dave’s eyes, in this kitchen. Dancing with you, still close, still warm.

He’s so happy. And healthy. And here.

The crazy fucking sequence of completely kismet events that led to your reunion was the best possible combination.

As far as you’re concerned.

The oven beeps, and Dave’s face puckers into more suppressed laughter.

The moment is fully shattered, and you find yourself trying not to laugh as well.

You let yourself linger close to him for a bit longer before withdrawing and going to put more ingredients into the pot.

Dave goes back to sitting at the counter, now humming softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one today! 
> 
> felt like writing a bit of fluffy filler, so here it is! haha 
> 
> hope everyone is having a great weekend! and if not, i hope dearly that it improves. everyone deserves a good weekend <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, please heed the tags. there are some very sensitive topics in this chapter.

Dave’s got his legs slung over the dog, who’s napping in the middle of the bed. His fingers pat on the arm you’ve got draped across his chest, an echo of the rain spitting up against the bedroom window.

The weather’s made it cool enough to cuddle, something you took great advantage of as soon as Dave laid down next to you. He relaxed until your fidgeting was done in the cool dim light of the bedroom. He sighed, and inhaled the smell of your scalp. You sighed in return, and threw your right knee over his hip to match your arm. He laughed, you hummed, it was quiet. The dog didn’t do much of anything, except exhale deeply in sleep.

It’s the afternoon on a lazy pink summer day.

Somehow, you were called and asked to change shifts.

Dave had the day off already.

He’s asked if you want to go on a date later, as a late birthday present, and you’ve agreed.

But until then, it’s time to enjoy what you have.

The Mayor had a nice little jaunt in the mud this morning, during his walk. Dave was too busy laughing to reprimand when the lab came up covered in dirt and wet. Dave took lots of pictures and video of the romp. The Mayor looked very pleased with himself when he got home. The Mayor got a bath. A very thorough bath, while you made breakfast.

And a dry, of course.

With the hair dryer you bought expressly for that purpose.

And all that excitement apparently tired him out so much that he just flopped down on the bed once he was done. You joined him after you ate with Dave and John, and then along came the last of your trio. And the rest is history.

The slow rise and fall of Dave’s chest is lulling you into a kind of half-sleep.

It’s almost August.

In a few weeks, Dave will be going back to school, as well as working.

A few days before that, he’s going to be getting The Mayor re-certified, and completing the registration that the school requires to let him bring the dog to class.

But Dave’s going to be going to school, soon.

That’s less time that the both of you will have.

Less time together, for these rainy afternoons.

Thankfully all his classes are in the morning, but he’s still going to be working a good part of the week.

…

Maybe you should go back to school, as well.

You’re saving up for your surgery, and you’ve got a long way to go still, but…

Maybe you could do something else?

Hm…

Nursing always appealed to you.

Your favorite aunt was a registered nurse, and she said it was very rewarding.

You’ve already got half the schooling you need for it. It’d take maybe… two years? A year and a half?

Dave yawns, stretching his arms.

He goes right back to tapping at his phone. You’ve been napping on him, but Dave’s far from drowsy.

“Hey, uh, babe?” you ask, into his worn tee shirt.

Dave snorts, and scratches your head.

“What, uh, babe?” he mocks lightly, and you flick his chest for the smart-ass tone.

Dave snorts again.

Your question is still hanging on the roof of your mouth. It sticks there, clinging like it doesn’t want to let go. Dave makes a soft noise, insisting on the inquiry, and you bury your chin in his chest.

“You think I could do college?” you murmur, muffled.

Dave looks a little confused and a little amused when you glance up at his eyes.

“What was that?” he asks you, and quits the scratching in your hair.

“I was thinking of… going back to school? I don’t wanna do this forever,” you tell him. “Being a manager is great, and I have good benefits and salary and stuff, but…”

You hesitate. Being at the job you have now is something you were determined on doing, for awhile. It’s something you have stock in doing, and experience, and it’s comfortable.

“But it’s not very _me_ ,” you finish.

Dave looks elated for a brief second before wrestling it under control.

You think you might burst into tears, and you have no clue why.

“What for?!” he asks, then, excited, and you feel yourself freezing up.

“Nursing,” you murmur again, and despite how inaudible it is, somehow Dave catches what you say. His eyes are glittering happy when you look up.

“I always liked taking care of people, y’know? And the shifts would be awful but,” you can’t finish.

Dave rolls over, careful to move around The Mayor, and wraps you in a tight hug.

You’re surprised, spluttering, not sure what to do with your arms. They’re trapped by your sides, so it’s not like there’s much to do with them right now, but yeah.

Dave is making it a little hard to focus with the nuzzling into the top of your head.

“You’d make such a good nurse, Karkat. You’d be so good,” he says then, and.

You melt into his embrace.

Mush and relief and sleepy dry eyes.

Dave lays like that, curling you against his front, for a few minutes.

By that point, you’re just awash with hope for this future you want for yourself.

Yeah.

You could do this.

A knock comes at Dave’s cracked bedroom door.

“Yeah man?” the limpet around you calls softly.

John pokes his head in, glancing at you first, and you duck your chin down and hide the few tear tracks on your face.

“You guys still going out for dinner?” he asks.

Dave releases you, and props himself up on one elbow to turn toward John.

“Yeah, that’s what the plan is. Why?” Dave asks. “Bringing over one of your lady friends?”

“Yeah,” John replies, with a little happy grin. “Both of them.”

You groan. “We’re getting a hotel tonight,” you grumble into the sheets.

Dave laughs. “Earplugs, babe.”

“I leave one polyamorous roommate, and then turns out _you_ have one,” you tell him, grumpy.

John kind of laughs in this self-congratulatory way before ducking out of the room.

“Just dinner, guys, don’t worry,” John calls down the hall, as you flop out onto your back.

“Yeah right,” you call back. John laughs again.

Knowing him, it probably _is_ just dinner.

Probably.

You groan one more time, and Dave pulls you back in for more cuddles. It works out.

You end up taking a look at your bank account later that night, and decide on coming home.

 

* * *

 

Dave is just getting back from his jog the next morning when you pick up his ringing phone.

He’d left it on the kitchen table, and the call from an unknown number cycled through a couple of calls before you picked it up.

“This is Dave Strider’s phone,” you answer, perfunctory.

It’s a woman’s voice, and she asks for Dave.

He jogs in through the door, and you hand the phone to him.

He takes it with a smile and a kiss to your temple, and starts dismantling The Mayor’s harness while he talks. He sits on his special de-harnessing stool by the door.

“Yeah? This is him,” he tells her.

You hear her speaking from the other line, and watch Dave’s face.

“Jersey City Medical… what?” he asks, and his hands freeze on the way to hanging up the harness on its hook next to the door.

The tinny voice says more things, and you frown as Dave’s face just… doesn’t change.

Jersey… that’s where Dave’s father lives?

“I’m next of kin, he got hurt, I get it, I was there, get to the point,” Dave retorts, like machine gun fire. His harsh tone takes you aback, and you’re filled with concern.

The Mayor whines, wagging his tail in a plaintive way and sitting patiently in front of Dave. Dave’s spare hand drops the harness, and goes out to sit on the back of the dog’s neck.

His face relaxes a bit, curbing from the smile it still sports.

More words on the other end of the line.

“What do you mean he was gut-shanked by a homeless guy?” he asks curtly, and there are more words. “With a rusty screwdriver, sorry, I must have forgotten that incredibly important detail. I’m not visiting him in the hospital again. Why are you telling me this?”

More words. Tinny, tinny words.

And his expression drops completely. Turns to stone. Hard, impenetrable stone. Dave ceases breathing altogether, his jaw a hard line that leads into the harder line of his back.

The Mayor whines some more, nosing Dave’s fingers. You don’t dare move from your spot.

Dave’s hand holding the phone drops. From it, you can hear the woman’s voice still speaking, questioning.

“Mister Strider,” you make out, and you get to your feet. “Mister Strider?”

Very gently, you take the cellphone from Dave’s fingers. He lets you, and… you can’t see anything in his vacant expression. He’s not breathing.

The Mayor barks, and Dave takes in a huge, sudden gasp of air.

Both his hands go to the dog’s ears, rubbing the feather-soft fur back and forth. He’s somewhere else.

The phone goes up to your ear, then, and the woman is very weakly still asking Dave’s name.

“This is Dave’s… partner, Karkat Vantas,” you say next, and she goes quiet for a moment before sighing, and apparently moving forward with as much protocol as she can.

“If you would put Mister Strider back on the phone, we have to move forward with procedure on what to do with the body. Cremation can happen very soon, the sooner the better. We’re running out of space right now,” she says, and oh.

Now you know.

Dave’s Bro… he—

“Gimme th’ p-phone,” Dave slurs, and you look down at him. He’s not okay, he’s not even looking at you. His eyes are glued somewhere over your shoulder, at a point in the distance.

Gently, you bat away his hand, and rub the thumb with your own before placing it back on the dog.

“No,” you tell him, holding the receiver away from your face. And then you go back to talk to the woman.

“My partner is indisposed, when can we call you back?” you ask, and she sighs. Like this is just as normal as anything else.

“Anytime in the next seventy-two hours, between eight and five, would be fantastic. I’ll have your file open,” she tells you, and then you say your curt goodbye and hang up.

“Burn,” Dave murmurs, and it’s so unintelligible you think you might have heard him wrong.

“What?” you ask, pocketing his cell phone. He whips his head around, eyes wild and brimming red and panic and fervor. It’s terrifying, but you maintain your facial expression and hold your stance.

 ** _“Burn him!”_** Dave nearly shouts at you. His voice cracks, and his hands are visibly shaking where they touch the dog.

You’re scared, and you try to not let it show.

The Mayor yelps in pain, and Dave reels back as if burned.

“Fuck,” Dave spits, scowling at his hands. His breathing quickens, and The Mayor doesn’t move away, just puts his paw and chin on Dave’s lap.

Now his eyes are wide not only with panic, but with worry. And fear. That’s the worst one.

Trying to keep breathing slowly and deeply, you crouch down next to him.

Dave would never hurt you.

Something is very, very wrong. But he would never hurt you. What’s important is getting him stable. Maybe even numb, or something, but stable. And then you can call his therapist, and call into work. You know he doesn’t work Saturdays.

Placing your hands in the air around Dave’s own, you give him the chance to let him feel how soft your skin is. He touches it, still breathing too fast, looking panicked between you and the dog and your hands.

“It’s ok, Dave, The Mayor is fine. You lost control there,” you explain, softly. Like it’ll help. You looked up some coping things. But it might not help. Right? But you can try. Right?

He’s freaking out because his Bro...

Eight hundred different things must be pumping through his brain. Eight hundred reasons why it’s his fault, why it’s horrible or good or bad or a relief. And eight hundred emotions are warring on his face. From relief to panic to agony to mourning and back around to solid, righteous anger.

“See? He’s okay. You’re okay,” you continue, and Dave’s face evens out into something.

He’s still hyperventilating, but it seems like you’ve avoided the worst of it.

You keep breathing, steadily, pointedly.

Dave’s breathing, after a few minutes and several rocking tips forward, starts to follow yours.

His eyes are still a little crazed, but he’s got his hands back on The Mayor, and the dog is whining softly with a closed mouth. He licks Dave’s hand, and goes back to resting his chin on his preferred knee.

You’ve drawn your own limbs back into your lap, and you’re sitting cross-legged on the floor. Your own steady and slow breathing has helped you feel calmer, less intensely worried. You’re still wracked with worry for your love, but it’ll be okay.

“He’s,” Dave tries, eventually. It’s been maybe ten minutes.

“Can you move at all?” you ask, when he doesn’t try to pursue the sentence.

Dave doesn’t really shake his head, and he doesn’t really nod either.

But he looks up, and you can see him in his eyes. Finally. He’s present, even if it’s just for now.

“He’s gone?” he croaks, again, maybe two minutes of silence later.

To everyone and no one.

And you take it upon yourself to answer.

“Yes, Dave,” you reply.

And Dave… sighs.

His whole body sags, and the bags under his eyes look deeper than the sea.

He’s staring somewhere you can’t see, again, tethered onto this small piece of the earth by the texture of fur under his fingers.

“Can you help me to the couch?” he asks. You sigh in relief. So he still knows he’s here, with you.

And it’s the first time he’s asked you for help like that.

The first time he’s admitted willfully to weakness in a moment like this.

So you help him stand, slowly and carefully.

And you take him to the couch.

Dave’s shaky on his legs, stiff and mostly unmoving, weak, but he tries to help. A little bit of spit wets the side of his mouth, but he doesn’t wipe it away.

The dog settles on one side of him, and he beckons you to take the other side. And he touches you, gently feeling your presence.

Dave is. Quiet.

“Can I call your therapist?” you ask him. “He can help you call the hospital back, to make arrangements. You don’t have to do it alone.”

It strikes you too late that bringing the subject back up this soon might have been a bad idea. But Dave nods slowly, and keeps petting the dog. He’s got one hand tucked around the inside of your leg, squeezed gingerly between the underside of your knee and your upper thigh. It’s still.

It makes something bloom in you to know that he’s also using you as an anchor.

So you pick the phone out of your pocket, careful not to touch and overstimulate Dave, and call him up.

 

* * *

 

It’s not too much later that afternoon that the hospital receives what Dave wants.

Dave wants you to stay there in the room when his therapist comes to the house.

He’s an older man, now, and he brings in a woven blanket and one of those little balls with tiny plastic beans inside of it. He rubs the dog’s ears in a friendly way, hands Dave the ball and puts the blanket around his shoulders, and sits a bit away on the coffee table.

When he leans past you where you still sit next to Dave, he smells like plain soap. No strong cologne, no smoke, nothing special. His sweater is old and worn, and has very obviously seen a lot of years.

Dave doesn’t smile when he comes in, but he slurs a short “hullo,” which is close enough, and they get their session underway.

It’s a bit before you do or say anything. But you’re here for Dave, not for you.

So while you wait, you listen.

The therapist slowly gets Dave to start talking clearly again, gets him alert somehow and a bit better. He knows Dave back to front, and he seems weary by the end, but he’s got it. He does a good job.

Unrealistically good, but a good job.

As you listen, you learn that Dave’s Bro had been suffering complications from his surgery from his accident. But, in the true spirit of himself, the man had refused to go into the hospital, obviously until it was too late. From his autopsy the hospital could tell he had been having heart problems, collapsed in an alley for some rest on his way into the emergency room, and then got “gut-shanked” by a homeless man for his wallet and shoes.

The people at the hospital think ‘Bro’ probably went slowly and painfully.

All that from the short conversation on the phone, huh.

It must be because Dave is so far away? But why would they give all those details? Next of kin thing? Is that even regulation?

Eventually, Dave and his therapist sit down, and they make the phone call back to the hospital. All his lines are written down on a white board, and he’s got all three of you to hold him up. Better sooner than later.

In the end, with some prodding by you to stop edging the fucking topic (which the therapist frowns at a little but lets slide), Dave works out details. There will be a cremation, and no funeral or wake to avoid fees. Dave will come by within a week and four days from now to collect the remains. Otherwise there will be exorbitant fines.

After that, Dave just wants to go lay down.

You make his therapist some food, and take some in on a plate for Dave to pick at if he wants.

The therapist leaves, nodding when you ask about an invoice and saying that a certain Mr. Egbert Sr has still been taking care of his fees.

Dave stays in bed, blank-faced and half asleep, for the rest of the day.

And the next morning before you leave for work, you have him call his boss. And you call your job. And you book two plane tickets to New York, pooling what little of your savings you have.

You’re going with him, this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey all! 
> 
> sorry for the pain :/ its my curse, i gotta make shit hurt haha
> 
> also yes, dave has a Miracle Therapist and i took some liberties on making things speed up a tiny bit.
> 
> next chapter is gonna be interesting, and im sorry but im going to be ending this soon! maybe a few more chapters, but. i just lost a lot of passion for putting the content together. lots of things happened, and maybe ill pick my mood for it back up again but im currently out of ideas and gusto. i have been thinking about writing something else soon, however, maybe some rosemary haha. change of pace and all that. sorry for the lame ending yall are going to face.
> 
> i hope everyone has a wonderful day, and you prosper in your needs and wants <3 love yall


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, sorry it's been a bit, ive been super stressed! love yall, enjoy the chapter!

Dave closes his eyes and lies on your shoulder for the entire plane ride, arms crossed and huddled as much as he can be into your side.

Getting a taxi from the airport to the hospital feels like it takes hours. It’s cold here, somehow.

It’s barely August.

And when you get to the hospital, there are lawyers waiting for you.

You’re too busy fucking with dragging your luggage at first to notice them.

One of them clears her throat.

Two fancy, well-suited, female lawyers whose watches probably cost more than your father’s house. They chat to each other almost genially in the dimly lit basement hall leading down to the small office you’ve been told to visit regarding the proper paperwork.

Two of them stand there, and look you both (and your old luggage) up and down a little too judgmentally for your liking before holding out a file. They’ve obviously seen a picture or something, because they don’t hesitate to interact with you.

“This…” the one on the left states, lipstick smacking as she talks. “Is the compilation of Mister B. T. Strider’s assets in full.”

Dave looks confused. It’s one of the first whole emotions you’ve seen on his face since yesterday. His mouth twists and his eyebrow flicks up, and he tosses his shades up onto the top of his head so that he can read the fine print easily. Dave fingers the edge of the file for a few quiet seconds second before flicking it open.

And his jaw drops.

After almost two days of nothing more than stone in his face, his jaw drops.

He tips a little, eyes crossing briefly before a frown takes over and creases his forehead.

Not wanting him to have another attack, here, in this hospital, you reach out a hand to place in the center of his upper back. Steadying him. You wish The Mayor was here, ready to steady him at a second’s notice.

The Mayor had to stay home, since Dave didn’t want him to have to go in the hold of an airplane and he wasn’t officially certified yet.

It was difficult convincing him that a three-day road trip to New York City was a bad idea. You managed, somehow. And the pooch stayed back at the house with John, and Jade making regular visits to walk him. She offered when you told her about the trip.

“These assets will be signed over to you, as his legal son and next of kin. Mr. Strider did not have a will. But he had us, and we have made the decision to channel all remaining funds to you,” the woman on the right says. “His company has been liquidated, and so have all his hard cash and gold and diamond assets, and that has been contributed to you. We have already paid ourselves, as is part of the contract with him, so don’t worry about that.”

Dave is bewildered. Shocked. Furrowed brow.

“What?” he asks, very obviously confused. Eyes wide, but not with fear?

“We reviewed a few files, dug in at a few places, and made a couple of phone calls in the past day or so,” the one on the left explains, like it’s old news. And it might be, for her. “There were some things that were very deeply hidden about you in there, Dave.”

Dave shrinks back a little, narrowing his eyes.

“And?” he prompts, waiting.

“And we figured that you out of all people deserved to not have anything more stripped from you,” she says, a little tiredly. “So we made sure you got screwed out of as little of this as possible. And got it funneled your way. Instead of to, say, our firm.”

Dave looks like he can’t quite believe it.

You lean over to see the paper on the top.

Two… holy _shit_.

Two million dollars.

Where the fuck was this asshole keeping all this money?

In his actual asshole, maybe?

The ceiling light nearest to you flickers.

Someone walks across the hallway behind you, soles tapping on the cold tile.

There are tons of complicated words and clauses and sentences there in that file. But it’s fairly condensed. Dave flips the page, reading lightning fast, before you can finish. Maybe the company sold big? Maybe he was saving for some end-of-the-world scenario?

You see a blurb accounting for all the money that was tallied from hard gold. It’s a lot. A _lot_.

“All we need from you is a signature, and a few pieces of information. Have your own representative contact us if you like, and we will work out how accounts will be managed.”

It takes a few minutes for that to register in Dave, and he looks up at the lawyers first before speaking to you.

Dave flaps a hand at you weakly.

“Call Terezi’s mom,” he says, breathing fast. “I know you have her number.”

You scramble to acquiesce.

“His residence and contents will be claimed by the government, if you have no interest in it,” the woman on the left chimes in again.

“Fuck no,” Dave automatically answers.

John’s father has all of the legal paperwork and shoddily narrow medical records from when Dave was a little kid. That much is covered. There would be nothing left for him in that apartment that would mean a single thing.

“Have it incinerated for all I care,” he adds, and one of the lawyers grins.

“Alrighty then,” she says.

“Can…” And Dave looks up at her. The file is clutched in his hand.

“Can…. Can I keep this?” he asks. “And talk to my, uh.”

It takes him a second to find the word, and you see him visibly steel himself and take a deep breath. He sighs it out, and finishes. “My legal council?”

She smiles again, then. “Of course. We have a case for it, as well, with a lock.”

She holds out a thin black zippable binder. It has, as promised, a little combination lock on it. There’s personal information in these documents.

Dave looks to you, seeming a little flustered, and you jump to attention. Right. Calling Terezi’s mom.

“Yeah!” you say, and pull out your phone. Dialing quickly.

Dave turns back to the lawyers.

“Can you fax a copy of documents to my legal council, with a number I give you?” he asks.

The lawyers look mildly impressed with how calmly he’s handling it. But they also seem to be prepared for the situation, pulling out a leaf of paper from a different file folder while Dave sheaths his documents.

“Yes, sir. Sign here. Simple legal agreement that this woman is who you say she is, and that we can pursue communication with her. There are blanks for her information,” she says, simply. And holds out a pen.

Terezi’s mom answers the phone, loud and a little grating. Heavily accented. She’s always been kind to you. And Dave, as well. For some reason. You remember her helping you with legal action, so long ago. She helped Dave too?

Huh.

“What, kid?” she asks, and.

Dave looks so.

His deep red eyes are conflicted. Confused. You’ll be on your toes, waiting for a meltdown for the next few days. But that’s okay, you’re here for him. Always here for him.

“We could use your help. There’s pay,” you tell her.

“Darling, I would do the favor for you without the money. Now what do you need?”

“Can I have a good fax number for you, for legal documents?” you ask.

She makes a noise.

“This sounds big,” she says.

“Yeah, it is. Kinda,” you reply.

And somehow, without question, she sighs and gives you a number. A number that you repeat to Dave. And some more information.

And that’s the beginning of the process.

 

* * *

 

At the hotel, Dave still doesn’t know how to react.

He’s staring at the binder in his hands. Sitting on the bland hotel bedding that is somehow still present even in the slightly nicer hotel you managed to get a short-order reservation in, he stares.

There was paperwork to sign at the hospital after that surprise meeting with the lawyers, and tomorrow you’re due to pick up the remains.

“Terezi’s mom is going to work with a financial advisor for you. Vriska’s less repulsive aunt, I think. And they’re going to get together with you when we get back, and go over a list of conditions and requests for what you want done with the money,” you’re saying.

It’s just to fill the silence as Dave stares, and stares, and stares.

“You can pay off your debt, you can save some, you can put some aside for the Mayor’s future expenses or charities. You could invest. Since I know you won’t want to keep it all.”

Dave is breathing steadily, and you can tell he’s only registering maybe piecemeal of what you’re feeding him. But he’s not telling you to stop. So it’s probably helping him ground, or something, and register things with your voice as a background drone.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, “Don’t wanna keep all of it. It’s _his_ money.”

You stop, and look over at him from where you’ve been sifting through both of your suitcases and pulling out toiletries and pajamas.

Dave is quiet as he sets down the binder to his left. On the floor.

It falls with a whap.

“It’s dirty money, I’ll only keep what is smart,” he adds.

You nod, slowly.

“Do you want to go to bed?” you ask, gentle.

Dave looks up at you, shaking his head. He slides the shades from his face and sets them on the bedside table. In his eyes, he’s all there. Present, with you.

You have no idea how, with everything else, but he’s there.

More relief than you know what to do with floods through you, and you smile at him.

You’re not going to wonder on how he’s fine right now. It’s okay. “You wanna see if John can get us a video call with The Mayor?” you ask, a little more normally for you.

Dave snorts at the idea. But he smiles, anyway, and nods. “Yeah. I miss him a lot already,” he says.

So you pull out your laptop, and you let it boot while you take off your binder for the night. Dave takes the computer and sets it up on the bed. Crossing his legs, he sits in front of it. His fingers move fast on the screen of his phone as he texts John.

There’s a pretty fast response.

Neither of you look at the folder again, during all this. It remains innocuous there, on the floor. Sitting in leather-bound silence and waiting.

Skype rings, Dave answers, and John is there with The Mayor.

The Mayor barks at the screen, and Dave laughs while John holds the dog’s paws up to wave. Dave is tense as a wire, but he’s all there, pantomiming little paw waves and cooing affectionately.

The call doesn’t last as long as you wish it could, because John has to get up to make dinner and doesn’t want to leave The Mayor to slobber on the laptop keyboard.

When Dave hangs up, though, he’s a little less tense. His breathing is a bit slower, and he continues to smile fondly before flopping back on the bed. His head settles into the crook of your thigh and stomach, and Dave sighs.

“Is that a ‘fuck, I missed my dog so much and now I’m jello’ sigh, or an ‘I’m bored and it’s time to bother Karkat’ sigh?” you ask him. Dave’s find smile disappears, and he’s once again visibly losing himself in thought.

He’s silent for a long few minutes.

You take the time to shut down and close your computer.

The air conditioner by the window rumbles to life, rustling the curtains just enough to make them swish against each other. Maybe before you sleep, you should take a shower. Or a bath. The tub in the bathroom was pretty big when you glanced in; it would fit the both of you easily. When you glance back down toward Dave, he’s frowning up at you. Considering.

“Do you… want any of the money?” he asks. “I would give it to you.”

Your brain comes to a screeching halt.

At first, you’re wondering what in the world you could need the money for. Or why he would offer it to you. Part of that incredulity makes the back of your brain flare up, kind of like anger. You tamp it back down easily.

“For your surgery, I mean,” he adds, looking back down. Dave lifts one of his hands, and stares at the palm as if examining the veins. “I know it’s expensive, and if I have the money…” he trails off.

You sigh. Oh.

In the taxi ride to the hotel, it crossed your mind that he might ask. Dave always wants to do things for you, always wants to provide for you. His breaths are careful, and his eyes are still cast forward instead of toward yours.

With two limp fingers, you reach out and touch the palm of his extended hand.

You also look at that palm, at the lines and crossing wrinkles. The hard spots from holding pencils. The stray, dry paper cut skin. The light palm and the tapered fingertips.

Your fingers trace down the center, to his wrist. Back up, to twine.

“That would be a terrific ‘fuck you’ in the face of that taintchafing ingrate, wouldn’t it?” you ask, blithely.

Dave snorts, but doesn’t smile.

Out of your periphery, you can see him staring up at you, curious.

And when you finish clasping his hand in yours, you meet his gaze.

‘I would honestly rather work for the money myself,” you say. And it took this much ceremony to get to this point, so you add, “I would also rather you keep the money for what you want to do. You deserve it, after getting less than nothing all this time.”

Dave releases a breath you hadn’t known he was holding.

“Yeah, I thought you would say that,” he admits. And grins a small, kind of sad grin.

“What the hell’s that face about?” you ask him.

Dave sits up from your lap, and shifts over to the side of the bed.

“It’s kind of shitty that I don’t want the money, isn’t it?” he asks, and stands.

“It’s understandable, if that’s what you’re asking around all that,” you tell him. “Not shitty.”

Dave gives you a grateful look, and doesn’t say anything else on the topic.

It was over much faster than you thought it would be, honestly.

But things like this have a habit of recurring, coming up later, making a surprise appearance, and so on and so forth. You’re ready to do whatever he needs.

Dave ambles over to the en-suite refrigerator, and opens the door. Balks at what he sees, and actually laughs.

From seemingly nowhere, he pulls out a bottle of vanilla vodka. Lifts it up, to show you.

“Wanna get smashed?” he asks. “Help me deal with shit in an entirely unhealthy way?”

You stand, and make your way over. Holy shit.

“Why the fuck is there an entire liter of Smirnoff in our hotel room??” you ask no one in particular.

Dave replies anyway.

“So that we can spend my shitty dead biological father’s money on it. Of course.” He’s laughing out loud, and already cracking open the bottle.

Dave takes a swig, winces at the initial bite and the sugary sweet flavor, and holds it out to you.

“There is no way I’m getting drunk off of this,” you tell him, even as you’re tipping the bottle back.

“Wanna have some really disappointing drunk sex after this?” Dave asks. You laugh, and take another drink.

“Maybe,” you tell him. Dave has the gall to look disappointed by the lack of a definitely positive answer.

“But I do want to see if we can both fit in that bathtub.”

Dave legitimately looks excited at the prospect.

 

* * *

 

You both definitely fit in the bathtub.

 

* * *

 

Hair dripping wet, half-toweled, and very drunk, you and Dave collapse on the king-sized bed. You’re wearing the robes that the hotel thought to provide. Dave is giggling furiously while he talks about the different charities he could donate to, that his ‘Bro’ would hate.

You kiss him in the middle of his sentence, still a little wired from the orgasm Dave got from you in the bath. He’s got astoundingly good finger-to-sweet-spots acuity, even drunk. The bottle is halfway gone, standing on the bedside table and waiting.

“So there’s all these foundations for kids from abusive homes! An’ there’s a lot for trans kids, and homeless youth, an’ gay kids, an’ stuff like ‘moms against porn’ an’ shit!” Dave is rambling, just slightly muffled by your face.

The towel on his head is askew, and you giggle as well as you ruffle his hair with it, collecting all the loose water.

Your thigh slots between Dave’s by accident as you roll on top of him to wrestle the hair into submission. Your own locks got a little drier than his on the way to the bed, but he’s also had a lot more of the vodka than you.

His breath smells like it. Sweet and alluring, tart and sharp from the alcohol. Dave smells like the soap from the shower, too, strangely attractive to your nose.

You sigh, and settle into him.

Dave stops talking mid-sentence to groan softly, taking a second to grip your hips.

He jerks up against you briefly.

“You could also give some to John’s dad,” you tell him.

Dave groans again, this time with frustration.

“Fuck, don’t talk ‘bout Dad out of the blue like that,” Dave whines. His face sets in a tiny little frown, and you laugh again.

“Fuck you,” he tells you.

“I love you too,” you simper, mockingly sweet, and pull up to give him a little smooch.

“I should invest some of. So we c’n buy a house. An’ save some for ‘mergencies. Like surgery or somethin’,” he tries to continue.

When you settle back down, this time with intent, you roll your hips against Dave’s.

He sighs, and grinds up again against your thigh. His dick presses up through the folds of the terry cloth robe, slipping against your skin. You’re a little bit too tipsy to get off another time, but as you grind back down on him, your skin feels tight and hot.

Dave’s moan creases your control, and you let him guide your body with his hands.

He frots up on you, and you down on him, carefully hitting that nerve on your pelvis that makes it feel just right. It’s short, but sweet, as he pulls your face up for a few lingering kisses that are more breath than lips.

The room spins a little as he picks up some amount of speed.

God, you’re like teenagers. It would be pathetic at any other time. But the warm and clumsy desperation of drunkenness fuels the fire in your belly, and you mutter his name like a mantra. Somehow, you feel yourself cresting again, and keen softly as the wave curves your spine and passes through your body.

Dave finishes soon after that, with a choking sigh. The warmth and tightness in yourself settles into a comfortable miasma, sitting there alongside the alcohol-induced haze.

“C’n we get room service?” Dave slurs happily. You sloppily reach for a tissue. It takes a few tries to grab it, but you succeed eventually.

“What’ya wan’,” you say muzzily against his warm sternum.

“Food,” he adds helpfully, as you wipe the mess off of you both.

It makes you laugh again, and you flop back down, half on his chest.

“Yeah, food,” you agree.

“I wan’… five plates of mac an’ cheese,” he says, very seriously. And then starts to laugh again. “Drunk afterglow is good shit,” he adds.

You snort.

It takes a few good minutes to actually get the energy to get up, pick up the phone, and order dinner.

Dave lets you make the call. He doesn’t ask for more vodka.

He gazes at you, all blurry doe eyes and smiles.

There’s something sad, there, behind his eyes. Something very sad.

You’ll have a long day tomorrow.

A very long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! sorry again the chapter took so long! 
> 
> next one is gonna be heavy, but i got back into the writing mood recently so hopefully it'll be quick! (heavy shit is hard to write tho, haha. but ive had a plan for this thing for awhile so maybe itll be faster!) i did a shit job of proofreading this, so this time im gonna welcome pointing out typos, but try not to let that be your only comment haha <3
> 
> i have another little AU im writing, a vampire AU cause im a cheesy dumbfuck who loves cliche and drama and vampires, its gonna be so lame but im trying for a legit romcom style, haha. its awesome. 
> 
> anyway! hope yall enjoyed, i hope to see you again soon! love yall, hope everyone is doing well and drinking enough water.


	16. Chapter 16

Dave’s collarbone is so warm under your lips.

Your head feels like hell, and your mouth tastes like ass, but this is probably the only place you’d ever want to be.

He’s wrapped around you like he’s the only thing protecting you from the world.

“Mmh,” he murmurs.

Words muzzy while he moves his head, he greets you with a slow smile.

“Mornin’. Had such a good dream about you,” he tells you in a near-whisper.

His eyes are so clear, lashes reflecting the daylight. Smiling back, you let yourself bask in the moment before all the worries of the day will come crashing down. There’s a bubble surrounding you and keeping you safe. You’re not ready to stick your foot out from under the blanket and let the monster grab it.

“That’s weird,” you muse, “Usually you don’t have good dreams when you’re drunk.”

Dave whines. “Just let me tell you about my good dreeeeeeam.” He flails a little, jokingly, and it makes you laugh.

“Yeah? What _kind_ of dream?” you ask him, letting a bit of smarmy tone in and running your fingers down his chest. The implication makes Dave chuckle sleepily, and he scratches the fingers of his left hand across your scalp.

“Not that kinda dream. It was… good,” he explains unhelpfully.

You snort.

“Descriptive.”

“You’re a bully,” Dave teases.

“Yeah, well, are you going to tell me about it or not?” you snark.

Dave makes a face and scratches across your scalp again, slower this time. He massages a bit at the base of your skull, and you go limp, attitude leaving you.

When you reopen your eyes, he’s smiling again.

“Well?” you ask again, with more sincerity. And a chance at a grin.

Dave’s face turns to sentimental mush.

You’ve seen that look before. The night he told you he loved you.

Warmth unfurls in your chest, a bright yellow flower opening to see the sun.

The sun is Dave.

That’s the implication here.

In case you didn’t catch it.

“We were… happy. Both of us. I donated most of the money, and gave some to Dad so he could retire early. And I bought a house. We lived there, you and me and the dog,” he says, and. It sounds cheesy and mushy and stupid, but the words feel right. They feel very right. “We were happy, and safe. From everything.”

His arms clutch you tighter for a second.

“And…” he trails off, looking unsure.

“What is it?” you ask.

“We were married?” he says, then.

And you freeze. His gaze is so searching, sincere, so real and true and present and full of love.

“I’m not asking you to marry me now, but. Would you want to someday?” he asks, and you unfreeze.

Something in you unclenches, and inexplicably you feel your eyes fill with tears.

A hot bead rolls down your cheek.

There’s an answer bursting in your chest. It feels like it’s pushing against your ribcage, trying to break free.

“Hey, what’s with the waterworks?” Dave asks, and his eyebrows wrench up.

You try to say something, and it almost escapes. Air gasps from the back of your throat, and you find yourself choked up over the answer.

“Hey,” he says again, more gently this time.

A touch thumbs its way under your eye, and you press your face into his palm.

Your septum ring catches on the sleeve of the robe he still wears, and you can’t be assed to care.

“Let me look at you,” he says.

Soft lips touch your forehead, and you look up at him out of the corner of your eye. Dave draws himself back so that he can look at you.

“I don’t know why I’m crying. This is stupid,” you reply, and sniffle. More tears.

He wipes them away again.

“But yeah,” you say.

Dave almost pokes your eye out with his fingers in surprise.

“Yeah?” he asks.

You nod. “Someday, yeah,” you say. “I would be down for that. Even if marriage is a fucking farce.”

Dave laughs aloud.

His lips find yours, then, and he rolls to cover you with his body.

You accept him there, wrapping your right leg around his hip, twisting the other into his ankle.

It’s not long before he has his tongue in your mouth, and you’re sighing with a smile into the kiss.

Dave runs his double tongue bars up along the top of your mouth, and your hands find his chest. Dave gasps as you thumb his nipples.

And then, at the same time, you both realize that neither of you have brushed your teeth yet. And after the vodka last night, your respective mouths taste awful.

Dave whips his head back, grimacing.

As he does this, his eyes cross a little, and he moves to clutch his skull.

“Aw fuck,” he curses, “Hangover from hell, Jesus Christ.”

“I’m afraid to get up,” you admit.

And the bubble is broken.

It was good while it lasted, at least.

Dave makes a face like he’s thinking the same thing.

It’s a visible change, how all of the previous week’s events hit him at once.

Dave slumps a bit where he straddles your waist.

Your heart wrenches painfully.

You reach out to grab the hand closest to you, and take it between yours.

“Let’s get breakfast,” you say, and kiss his knuckles.

Dave manages a grin. “Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

The free continental breakfast is actually not half bad. Dave holds your hand all the way downstairs, uncaring of onlookers.

You’re both tragically hungover.

Dave gets you both coffee, and you make sure to get him a good amount of food.

You make sure to pester him excessively to eat, despite the fact that he tells you he’s not hungry.

In retaliation to you nagging him to eat breakfast, Dave feeds you a whole piece of toast by force.

You get jelly all over your face.

You try to look at him in a stern way through your laughing.

He doesn’t take you seriously.

He laughs, too, and concedes to eating some orange juice and his own eggs and sausage.

It’s very light.

And then, as soon as you step out of the hotel and into the bright and sunny day, things go quiet again.

It’s time to collect the ashes.

 

* * *

 

“Pennsylvania Hospital, please,” you tell the cab driver, and he nods. He’s got some music playing, something with a lot of drums and horns and enthusiastic singing.

Dave says nothing again, all the way to the hospital.

You’re carrying that folder for him, with the little lock on. He didn’t want to leave it in the hotel, even in the safe, and you don’t blame him. Even though he started out holding it, he handed it to you while he adjusted his hoodie in the taxi and just never took it back.

You watch the meter go up, steadily.

Thank God for your savings for all these cab fares.

As for Dave, he’s staring into space, deep in thought.

Every now and then he’ll frown deeply, and you’ll see him take a few deep breaths.

What is he remembering?

You have a few good guesses.

Eventually you get to the hospital, get out of the cab, pay the cabbie, and walk up to the doors.

You push them open, and enter.

“Let’s get this over with and go home, okay? We can do whatever you want with the remains,” you tell him.

Or so you think you do.

But when you look up to your right, Dave’s not there.

Panic sets in faster than lightning.

Whipping around, you see him. Just standing out there, fifteen feet away, out on the sidewalk.

Dave looks like he’s bracing for something. His face is shattered with indecision, his eyebrows wrenched in the deepest frown you’ve ever seen on his face. Something in him is taught, like a violin string about to snap, spring back and catch someone in the eye.

You jog back out the oddly dim hallway, and carefully walk up to him.

A few pedestrians mutter as they walk around the two of you.

A baby cries down the street.

“They said they would throw out the remains if they weren’t picked up within two days, right?” he asks.

It’s so soft you think you’ve misheard him at first.

His eyes could burn a hole in the sidewalk.

You don’t doubt they would if his shades were off. Like that one guy in x-men.

Bad reference.

Carefully you answer him.

“…yeah,” you say.

You have an idea where this is going.

And then he confirms it.

“Okay then,” he says, shrugs very stiffly, and just. He just leaves.

Dave steps in front of a woman with a stroller, apologizes graciously to her, and walks away from the doors.

You stand there, shocked and stock still, for a good couple of minutes before you manage to move. Dave is halfway down the block by the time you can command your feet. You jog, but don’t catch up to him until he gets to the crosswalk.

“What the fuck?” you demand, and have to apologize to the woman with the stroller as she frowns at you.

“Let’s go to the pier,” he says.

“What pier?” you ask. “You know less about this city than I do, Dave.”

“There has to be a pier of some kind in a town this big,” he answers, waving his hands around. “Or the shore, the river, I don’t fucking know. Let’s walk.”

He’s not looking at you.

You’re confused, but. There’s something off about Dave. Very obviously, glaringly off. You go with it.

It takes several turns and too much time in tense silence to get to some water. You can tell you’re reaching the water almost purely by the smell. There are fewer people this way. At times, you have to jog to keep up with Dave.

Fuck being short.

His stride is long, and somehow confident. Even as you end up going in a circle at one point, Dave seems comfortable with the navigation. It’s a side to him you haven’t seen. You’re not entirely sure if it’s stemming from this situation, or spending so much time alone as a kid. You know he spent a lot of time wandering in the closest city as a kid. He would take the train, he’s told you, and he would just go into free museums and sometimes take peoples’ leftover food they left out.

He doesn’t like to talk about it much.

The two of you reach this bridge over the river. You think it’s the Delaware River, but you’re not sure.

You don’t see a sign telling what bridge it is.

It’s this ugly powder-blue color, hopefully from some kind of erosion or age. It’s got those really tall things in the middle, with suspension cords, kind of like the Golden Gate Bridge? It has a staircase leading up to a walking path, which Dave immediately beelines for, and takes two stairs at a time.

You follow, and get a faceful of wind immediately upon reaching the top.

The cars are so loud as you pass them on the way up.

“C’mon,” Dave says, and waits for you to catch up before he starts walking.

“Why are we here?” you ask him, trying to glean some information.

Dave just shrugs, and keeps going.

It takes a short while to reach the center of the bridge.

A truck’s horn blares down on the car lanes.

A train passes underneath your feet.

Dave walks.

And walks.

And then, as suddenly as he took off from the hospital, he stops.

It’s as close to the center of the bridge as you can tell.

And he just halts there, seemingly unable to decide fully what to do and making concerning jerky motions before apparently choosing to lean over the rail.

His arms cross on the metal, and he looks over into the river below.

You watch in silence, stepping out of the way of the sparse pedestrian traffic.

Dave stands like this for a good long while.

It’s so long that you end up feeling like you’re baking in the sun, and roll up your sleeves. You lean against the rail as well, to feel the breeze from the river on your face.

Several boats pass below, their names or types escaping you. You can see several docks and piers, none of which swarming with commercial traffic.

A cop passes on the walking path, and gives you a strange look, but pays Dave no heed. Probably because Dave is white. That didn’t really need to be observed, but you’re still a little bitter about it happening. You make a face at his back and give him the finger.

There’s another bridge a ways down.

The train passes below you another couple of times. You wonder what train it is. Probably commuter, 95% likelihood of that.

You’re a little hungry.

Car horns honk, you hear couples talking as they pass you.

And then Dave moves.

Dave heaves a little, with his full body.

He looks like he’s going to tip over the side for a second, and you almost leap out with your arms to grab him.

But he sways back again, breathing quick and heavy.

He’s crying. Tears are leaking from his eyes, and he chokes out a few sobs.

“Breathe slow, Babe,” you remind him. It’s instinctual, at this point and taking the past few days into reference.

And he does. He breathes a little more slowly. But he still cries, mashes his hands into his eyes and sobs. It’s a broken sound, a released noise. Like he’s dissolving from the inside. Dave clutches his chest with one hand, and you draw him a little forward and out of the way with a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re okay,” you remind him.

The crying gets louder; it turns strangled and pained, rough on his throat, and you have to wave off a few concerned looks. Luckily, not enough people care for it to matter.

The foot traffic has thinned greatly, and there are maybe one or two people that pass you.

Dave’s shoulders shake, and his head moves side to side, like he has to deny it. What ‘it’ is, you don’t know. You’re sure you’ll find out. The sobs get quiet again, piteous and afraid. His fists clench and unclench, his feet don’t shift and his knees are locked. All of him is locked.

“I’m here,” you try, then. “I’m here for you.”

Dave goes still, and you’re worried you’ve fucked up in a major way.

And then out of nowhere, he lets out this huge guffaw.

It’s loud, obnoxious, makes you get a little closer to him. He dissolves into some kind of laughter, just a little hysterical.

And then he jumps back, punching the air and crowing out. Like victory.

You’re baffled. What the hell?

Dave turns to you, and his eyes are painfully bloodshot.

“I’m done! I’m out!” he tells you, excitedly. He’s smiling so wide and warm, and his hands are clenched.

“What?” you ask, taken off guard.

Dave doesn’t answer at first, only grabs your face.

“He’s gone! I’m done,” he says again, and he starts crying once more.

Dave pulls you in by your jaw, his fingers gentle in your hair and on your skin.

And he kisses you full on the mouth.

Right there, in public, on this bridge in a city you don’t reside.

It’s a kiss that’s very telling and full of desperation to prove himself and.

It’s so happy, so loose and careless and a little spit gets on your nose.

You splutter, pushing him away just a little and laughing aloud.

Dave doesn’t have much to be afraid of, now.

And it shows in his face. His eyes, cast up and happy, as he picks you up with both his arms and swings you around in a circle.

You’re laughing too hard to care that it’s dangerous to do this on a bridge.

When he puts you down, he kisses you again. His hands find your hips, trail over your lower torso, light something in your belly. His mouth is confident on yours.

Down the ways a bit, someone yells at you to ‘get a room’ or something like that.

You flip them off.

Dave is so happy.

You’re so happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! hope everyone enjoyed the chapter
> 
> i think the next chapter is gonna be the last, just fyi! im running out of passion for this story, and i wanna be able to put effort into the chapters instead of ending it or just making a bunch of subpar content haha
> 
> i hope everyone is doing well, i love you all! im starting a canon divergent AU, and i have a silly vampire AU in the making haha, go check it out haha
> 
> have a wonderful day and week ahead of you! <3


	17. Epilogue

_“So. Where do you see yourself in five years?”_

…

Dave’s fingers gently trace the diagonal scar. It’s still a little raised, still red. It will be for awhile. But it’s healing, like its twin on the right side of your chest. Slowly disappearing.

The money for top surgery ended up coming faster than you thought it would. With Dave using both his salary and some of the money from his ‘inheritance’ to pay the bills, you were able to save up in no time.

Most of the money he got went to charities. Charities for LGBT youth and counseling, at your suggestion. There were quite a few options for him to choose from.

(He also ended up donating a small sum to the EPA, just because it struck his fancy.)

The touch is cool on your scars, and you’re fiddling with signing up for your last semester of classes while your fiancée naps on your chest. Bare chest. It’s a little chilly, actually. Maybe you should get him to grab the blanket off the headboard?

You stopped working full time a year ago, because of your education taking priority.

You live with Dave in an apartment of your own now. It’s a pretty decent place, and with his new job it’s easy to pay the bills.

You’re so fortunate. To have things work out the way they did, you’re so fortunate.

The wedding is going to be in the spring. It’s supposed to be hot this year, but that’s fine.

Dirk and John’s Dad actually ended up having an out and out (at Christmas dinner last year, when you announced your engagement) about who would make the cake for the event. It was ridiculous and your father was chortling the whole time from where he sat. There were creative insults thrown.

Dave pacified them by saying that both of them could bake the cake.

Later that night, he confessed to you that he was terrified of whatever monstrosity Dirk would come up with. He cornered Roxy and made her promise to keep the man in check.

Kanaya wants to design your suits.

Rose wants to choose the venue.

Jade wants to release doves. You both politely declined. She settled for best man, or maid of honor, or whatever moniker she’s decided to use this month. John did the same, and you had to promise to sicc Sollux on them to get them to agree to not try any ‘hilarious’ pranks on the big day.

The dog at your feet sighs and nuzzles into the bottom of your foot.

The Mayor is happy and healthy, if not just a tiiiiiiny bit overweight because Dave spoils him. He still gets all his walks, and recently re-upped his certification. He’ll be carrying your rings down the aisle, led by John’s dad, which is just the fucking cutest thing you’ve ever heard.

Your father was overjoyed to hear you were getting hitched. You made him promise not to spend too much on your gifts.

Your honeymoon will come after you graduate, and Dave is using his savings for it.

He did end up investing about two hundred grand of that ‘inheritance.’ He put another chunk of it into The Mayor, some into a separate savings fund for food and medical bills and stuff. He paid Dad back on the funds he helped out with on The Mayor, and offered him a tidy amount more just because he wanted to return _something_ for all the surrogate parenting and care for so long.

Of course his Dad refused, and of course Dave put the small amount aside in a savings account to collect interest. You know he’s planning on slipping it to his Dad for retirement or something eventually. Maybe a nice trip to tour patisseries in France.

He would like that.

“Hey babe,” Dave murmurs from beneath your chin.

His eyes are sealed shut when you glance down, and you scratch your hand through his hair.

“Yeah?” you ask, and finalize your cart of classes, accepting them before closing the window.

“You happy?” he asks.

It’s a quiet, sober moment.

The laptop next to you hums, and the rain hits the window outside.

Dave breathes, and sighs.

You stare at him until he blinks open his gaze and tilts his chin to stare right back.

First, you smile.

It catches like wildfire on his face, and for a brief moment you feel like Icarus.

Dave is your sun.

And then he catches you, his hand sliding to cup your elbow.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“I’m happy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, this is it! it's the end. 
> 
> I hope everyone had a great ride, and a wonderful time reading this. It took me forever to come out with a measly 761 words for the last chapter, but it happened. And i feel like this conclusion fits it the best. 
> 
> If you have any questions about how things ended up, and how someone might be doing that I didn't mention, feel free to ask! I know i probably forgot to cover at least a few things, and thank you for your patience. <3 
> 
> I hope yall all have a wonderful year and stay strong and happy and brave when you can. I love you guys, youre amazing readers and I couldnt have done it without you. 
> 
> till next time!

**Author's Note:**

> I saw the prompt and I just had to write it!!! So here you go, hahaha. the sequel no one asked for but I had a lot of fun writing anyways!!!! 
> 
> I love y'all and hope you have a wonderful day!!
> 
> [Here](http://royalrastafariannaynays.tumblr.com/) is a link to my blog if you want to talk to me about my fics!


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